


To Advance An Honest Mind

by catadamon



Category: Howl no Ugoku Shiro | Howl's Moving Castle, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Big Bang Challenge, Community: shkinkmeme, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-09
Updated: 2011-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:06:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catadamon/pseuds/catadamon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fanfiction universe mash-up of Diana Wynne Jones' Howl's Moving Castle and the Holmes universe. When Mr. John H. Watson meets a consulting detective named Mr. Sherlock Holmes, he finds himself lost within Holmes' strange adventures. Holmes has sacrificed much in his quest, including his own heart. Can Watson help restore what was once lost before it is too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Watson Visits 221B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I type this, I have set upon the journey of editing one of the longest stories I have ever written, and certainly the longest in such a short period of time (NaNo years not included ^^). This story has helped me get through a very difficult period in my life, and for that I am very thankful for its existence and am so happy to have it with me. I did not plan to make this story my Big Bang entry in the beginning. No, in fact I was going to bring out of my dusty files the NaNo attempt I tried last year, but just could not get launched, which was a story about Holmes' "death" and subsequent "rebirth". For now, that story will have to remain on the back-burner (or buried deep in the basement if I have anything to do with it). The story I ended up choosing instead, To Advance An Honest Mind, was a challenge on the shkinkmeme that I started but had to put on hold because of RL happenings. I had worked on it a little, but professional obligations in trying to get things moving on a different project with a publisher took over and this story was lost to the ether.
> 
> Then, in February of this year, I woke up one morning with a severe pain in my shoulder, which quickly spread to my neck. At first, my doctor thought it was a pulled muscle. I draw and paint a lot, so that was a certain possibility. But then the pain did not go away, and got worse. By March two specialists had been consulted, and were saying many scary things like "nerve damage" and "swelling against the spine", all the while, the pain got progressively worse until right after my birthday in mid-March when I was bedridden until the middle of April when I was cleared for physical therapy after painful spinal injections. When sign-ups started in March, I signed up thinking that I would be fine soon, as I was assured I would be after the injections. Clearly, I did not get better. Here it is mid-August and I am still in a lot of pain and on my third course of treatment. But at the time, I thought I would be fine, so I mentally prepped myself to try and start my NaNo idea over again and see if I could fix the problems I had been having.
> 
> On March 26th, Diana Wynne Jones, who was the author of Howl's Moving Castle amongst MANY other amazing books, died of complications from lung cancer. I was absolutely devastated. She was (and still is) my favorite author and had been ever since I read HMC the first time in 2005. I decided to change my big bang to this story, to write it in her memory. Still bed-ridden, I re-read HMC and its first sequel Castle in the Air and took A LOT of notes. Then I re-read each of the Holmes stories I intended to blend together, taking even more notes. Because I was still not able to sit up without a lot of pain, I wrote the story by hand while laying in bed, pacing myself to have at least five pages (front-to-back) written each day, which is easy enough when you are suffering cabin-fever as much as I was. The hand-written pages nearly took up an entire notebook before I was cleared to type at my computer again in short intervals, and then came the process of typing that all out. By the time I had typed everything, I had surpassed the Big Bang minimum by 5,000 words, and I was still on the first part of the story. This should have been an indication of how much this story would grow during my rehabilitation ^^ But this story kept me going. Even when it was a very painful day, I could use this story to distract myself.
> 
> Thank you both Diana Wynne Jones and Arthur Conan Doyle for creating these massive universes with such imagination and breadth that it would be possible for someone like me to play in their worlds for a bit. And also thank you to the several people who beta-ed this and assured me I was not writing lunatic ravings, but would correct my insane typos: frenchcinephile, doctorkara, skull_bearer and ken_ichijouji. All of you are amaaaaazing. And thank you to my artist feyuca, who did some FANTASTIC art. I heart youuuuuu!
> 
>  
> 
> Now, please enjoy the strange adventure of the heartless Sherlock Holmes and his companion, the compassionate Dr. John Watson. It has been a joy to work on.

_In the land of England_ , specifically the city of London, is where our story begins– although it ends in quite a different place. In London, if you are a man in possession of quite a bit of wisdom, then you are well off indeed. Those who are able further to wrap their wisdom with infinite wit are treasured above all, so even a man who is in the least intelligent, seeks to also have a bit of wit about him. But Mr. John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers (formerly of Afghanistan and India proper) found that he lacked wisdom and never had a knack for wit, so when he found himself back in his old college stomping ground after many years abroad, he felt quite out of his element. But with a pensioner's pay, and no family ties, he did what any English gentleman would do in London: spend all of his time playing cards at the tables of his local gentleman's club. The hotel at which he was staying was abysmal at best, so he spent as much time as he could cooped up in the warm, smoky atmosphere, losing all of his money in comfort. 

But his habits could only outlast his purse. At the rate he was going, Watson would have had to succumb to borrowing money from some unsavory characters if he hadn't had the very good luck of running into an old college friend at the club, Stamford. Watson quickly divulged to his friend about the dire circumstances. "I cannot afford to live in the hotel any longer," he admitted. "But solving the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price is quite difficult." Stamford looked as if he was about to say something, but was unsure of whether he should or not. Watson raised an eyebrow. "What is it?" he asked. "Do you know of somewhere?"

"I do," Stamford admitted, sounding extremely hesitant. "Although I'm not sure if you would be interested. Sherlock Holmes is rather... an eccentric sort." But when pressed further, Stamford could would not go into detail. "You'd simply have to meet him" was the only explanation that Stamford would give, so Watson resolved to do just that.

 

The apartment at 221B Baker Street was much grander than Watson had imagined. From what he could manage to get out of Stamford, he had not expected this Sherlock Holmes to be living in such a fine place. It was a three level townhouse with a charming exterior and even more so interior. Tidy and charming, the house was quite inviting. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was most welcoming. She smiled the instant Watson introduced himself. "Oh, I do hope you decide to stay, Doctor," she said, kindly. "Mr. Holmes is ever in need of a new companion. I do worry about him, always up there alone." And while he was worried about his leg and the seventeen stairs leading to where the rooms were, Watson was already half convinced to take the apartment, regardless of this Sherlock Holmes and whatever his eccentricities. 

After knocking on Holmes‘ door, Stamford looked over to Watson with a brief nervous smile. Before Watson could ask what the matter was, the door was open and Sherlock Holmes was standing before them. 

Holmes was a tall, lanky fellow with extremely pale coloring indicating that he didn't go out in the sun much. Yet his expression was world worn, experienced. He was not from the same mold as Stamford; the traditional English gentleman whose most important labor in life is hiding one‘s own self-importance with a façade of modesty. An air of superiority and intelligence radiated off of Holmes, and Watson, to his never-ending regret, found himself overwhelmed by it. "Stamford," Holmes nodded, but his eyes were locked on the face of John Watson. Holmes' fierce grey eyes chilled Watson to the bone. "I do not know you." Watson's face flushed as floundered to say something. But Holmes did not give him the chance to reply, "But I perceive that you have been in Afghanistan," Holmes said flatly. 

"How on Earth did you know that?" Watson asked, his eyes wide. Although in the back of his mind, he knew that he should be outraged that Holmes had not even had the courtesy to allow the trade of introductions. 

Holmes shook his head. Chuckling to himself, he said, "Never mind. Come in gentleman. Please, sit down." He opened the door wide, allowing Watson and Stamford to pass the threshold. 

The confident feeling Watson had about taking the rooms vanished when he saw the state of the sitting room. The floor was littered with papers, books, newspaper clippings, a violin and bow, photographs, monographs, and several cups of tea, all of which did not look like it had moved for some time. It was hard to believe the this apartment belonged to the same planet, much less the same building! Walking into the room was impossible to do without stepping on something. But as they moved into the room, Watson saw far many worse things. There was a VR inscribed on the far wall in bullet holes, for example, with dubious green liquid leaking through some of the holes, which led Watson to believe that perhaps they were not made by bullets after all. On the mantle place there was an odious skull that seemed to be looking directly at Watson; a small dagger which had be driven into the wood, and held a small collection of envelopes; and a slipper stuffed with tobacco, which hung from the end of the mantle and was held in place by a collection of five or six smoking pipes. Closest to the door, there was a long table with a vast array of chemicals haphazardly stored, some smoldering, that encouraged both Stamford and Watson quickly to the seats that were as far from it as possible. 

If it were not for the fact that Watson had needed the room ever so desperately, he would have turned right around and left the place. But as it stood, it was either here or the streets, so he decided to look past the mess and try to make the best impression that he could on Sherlock Holmes. 

Stamford sat on the settee and Watson decided to take the wicker chair closet to the fireplace, which he found odd to be burning midday near the end of Summer. It seemed the safest distance from the chemical table despite the radiating heat from the fire. Holmes stood before them with a large smile on his face but said nothing as Watson tried desperately not to stare. 

Clearing his throat, Stamford was the one who broke the silence. "Holmes, this is an old college friend of mine, John Watson. He is in the process of looking for a room to rent and I thought..." he coughed. "Well, I remembered that you had said something to the matter that you were looking for someone to go halves in these, er, _lovely_ rooms."

"Indeed," Holmes replied, still staring at Watson, but the smile had vanished. He was now looking at the doctor as if he could see into his very soul. And based on what he had already deduced, Watson wasn't quite sure that was exactly what Sherlock Holmes was doing. 

But then, with a blink, Holmes' attention turned away and he was the smiling man again. "Forgive the mess," he said with a great flourish of his arms. "I've just finished a complicated matter, and Mrs. Hudson has yet to grace the sitting room with her forces of cleaning." He laughed briefly, only making Stamford and Watson all the more uncomfortable. Holmes turned his attention back to Watson, although in a much more friendly matter. "Tell me, doctor, do you mind tobacco smoke?"

"Not at all. I always smoke 'ship's' myself," Watson replied. "But how did you know that I-"

"Tell me," Holmes interjected, clearly ignoring the obvious question, "Are you adverse to violin playing?"

"Not particularly, so long as it's well played." 

Holmes clapped his hand together and smiled widely. "That settles it then! You can move in tomorrow if you like."

"But I-"

"Nonsense, doctor," Holmes shook his head. "There's nothing to fret over. I don't have any other shortcomings, besides the occasional chemical experimentation. I can be a very amiable person, when I set my mind to it." After a second's more consideration, and in the process looking over Watson once more, Holmes nodded. "I think we'll get along just fine." 

Watson was seriously beginning to think that Sherlock Holmes could actually read his mind, with his undercutting replies that addressed exactly what he was thinking. "I haven't-"

"No need," Holmes said reassuringly. "Well, I do hate to cut this interview short, but I still have a very busy day ahead of me, and Scotland Yard is expecting me, so I have to say good morning to the both of you." He offered his hand to Watson. 

They were rushed out of the rooms just as quickly as they had been rushed in. Mrs. Hudson saw them to the door, visibly concerned for how short of a time Watson had taken in his inquiries. Although she did give him a brief smile before wishing Stamford and he a good day. 

"I warned you," Stamford chuckled after the door shut behind them. "Strange fellow."

"Is he always like that?" Watson asked, still completely astounded.

"Not always." Stamford shrugged. "When his mind is preoccupied, he can be a bit... brief with people. But he is always as polite as could be expected of someone in his situation."

"And what, pray tell, is that?"

"Well, you saw the rooms with yourself. What do you think?"

Watson shrugged, "He's a bit eccentric. Very puzzling. Something about his eyes, though... I can't put my finger on it."

The two began to walk away from 221B Baker Street. Watson hoped that some distance would clear his head to the strange encounter. But it only made things worse. When Watson could not stand it any longer, he stopped and turned to Stamford, "How the devil did he know that I had come from Afghanistan? And a doctor?"

"That's just his little peculiarity," Stamford said with a strange smile. "A good many people have wanted to know how he finds things out." After a glance, Stamford could make his own conclusions. "I know that look. You're going to take it, aren't you? You always did enjoy a good mystery."

"He's intriguing, you must admit."

"You'll find him a knotty problem, despite your best efforts. He is quite heartless."

 

Watson moved in the very next day. 

Not that there was very much to move. His army habits meant he retained very few possessions which barely filled the large trunk he owned. Living quarters needed to be easily and quickly moved. Nothing was ever permanent. His possessions barely filled the large trunk that he was issued: clothes, his journals from the war, a few worn yellow-back novels that he had since purchased and read through several times since arriving in London, a few boxes of cigars, and his brother's watch. 

But whatever expectations Watson had about moving into the upper-level rooms of 221B Baker Street were forgotten as soon as all his belongings were moved into his new room. He quickly learned that with Sherlock Holmes, you could have no expectations, except perhaps to welcome the most unexpected. 

Having seen the state of the sitting room during their introduction, Watson had assumed that what Holmes had said was true– and that the ever-kind Mrs. Hudson would have the sitting room in top condition the following morning when Watson rang. From what he could tell, there had been a serious attempt to pick up the flood of papers that covered the floor. However, it seemed a new mess had taken over the sitting room, this time with chemicals, scribbled notes, and scientific books spread out on the floor. Holmes showed no sense of shame when he welcomed Watson into this newly made mess, smiling widely just as he had the day before. The trunk that Watson drug behind him shifted the sea of papers. He would have apologized if it weren't for the fact that Holmes looked as if he didn't care at all. So there was no method to his messes? They were just there. That was something Watson resolved, to himself at least, to change then. He could not tolerate a mess just for the sake of having one. 

The two men worked together to tote Watson's cumbersome trunk up the small stairs where Watson's new room lay. The entrance to Watson’s new room was a small narrow staircase of ten or so stairs. At the top of the slight, there was Watson’s room to the right and a storage closet to the left. It was a small room, but Watson was never one who needed much space. The smirk on Holmes' face did not once disappear as quickly as it had the day previous, but he remained silent. Watson, attempting to fill the void with any kind of conversation as they worked their way up the stairs, finally said, "Have you known Stamford long?"

"Not long," Holmes replied easily. It was baffling to Watson that the man had taken much more than an even share of the weight of the trunk, but yet his voice sounded as if he were perfectly at ease. "We have attended some of the same lectures at St. Bart's the last few months," he added, once again anticipating Watson's forthcoming question. 

"But you aren't studying to be a doctor."

A small chuckle came from Holmes then as they finally reached the top of the stairs. "Admirably spotted." They lowered the trunk to the wood flooring, Holmes with much flourish of his hands. Holmes moved his hands around quite frequently, Watson noticed. They were like an outlet for pent up energy, moving constantly like Holmes’ mind, while the rest of his body could not perhaps keep up. Holmes smiled at Watson and added, "No doubt it was from an observation you have made about my character in the few minutes of our acquaintance."

"No doubt."

Waving Watson aside, Holmes knelt down and pushed the trunk into Watson's room. "If you would enlighten me, doctor. I am extremely interested in how you came about this conclusion."

Watson followed him into the room, slightly annoyed. He nodded to the trunk and said, "You know, I could have done that, Mr. Holmes."

"Certainly you _could_ ," Holmes replied with another wide smirk. "However, you will find that I do not condone people with severe injuries making them worse by doing things they should instead ask for assistance. Especially when someone can so readily available. Now, as you were saying?"

Unsure on how to follow that remark, Watson stared at his new roommate for a moment. There was no doubt in Watson's mind that his gait gave nothing away about the limp in his leg. He had practiced for several weeks, once regaining the ability to walk, to hide his injury just so. However Holmes had seen through him so easily, as so many other things in their very brief acquaintance that Watson couldn't help but begin to suspect Holmes was a wizard. 

Watson's silence only made Holmes' smirk wider. "Forgive me for saying something about it, doctor. I can see it is not a subject you like speaking about," he gave a slight bow in show of wanting forgiveness. "Sometimes, in my observations, I have a tendency to go too far, as I am sure Stamford already warned you of. It would not be the first time or certainly the last. Please say that you forgive me. I would hate to ruin your opinion of me so early in our acquaintance."

Nodding, Watson replied, "Certainly." Then, with a small laugh, he added, "But I would dearly like to know how you do it."

"It's nothing more than what I am sure are the same powers of observation that you have used on myself," Holmes said flippantly, shaking his head. 

"Yours powers are much sharper than mine," Watson observed. 

Holmes thought about that for a moment, tilting head to the right. "More practiced, perhaps. But that comes in my line of profession."

"But if you are not a doctor, then why are you attending lectures at St Bart's? Stamford tells me you also use the labs they provide as well. So it pertains to something in the medical field, surely."

At this Holmes' shoulders shook in a kind of silent laughter. "Not exactly." When Watson opened his mouth to inquire further, Holmes interrupted him with a raised hand. "Perhaps I may be so good in pointing out that you came to your conclusions based on the fact that I am perhaps too detached to be a good practitioner of medicine," he added. "Ergo my expertise is in other areas that require the use of some medical knowledge." 

"But–"

Holmes gave Watson a firm pat on the shoulder. "I have no doubts you will work it out, doctor. But for now I must leave you to your unpacking and thoughts. My presence is required in the sitting room in precisely, three, two..." There was a loud knock downstairs. With another flourish of his right hand, Holmes backed out of the room and closed the door, leaving poor Watson feeling more confused than he had been when their conversation began.

As he did not have many belongings to unpack, it did not take long for Watson to become settled into his new quarters. He did take some time, however, relaxing on his new bed, absorbing his new home. It had been a long time since he truly belonged anywhere. Traveling in the Army, the hospital treatments, and then living in a small hotel room in London– he had been like a ghost for the last several years of his life.

With his trunk unpacked, and it being close to lunch time, Watson slowly made his way down the narrow steps to the sitting room, listening carefully for whatever it was that 'required Holmes' presence.' Watson still was not sure _what_ to make of Holmes' announcement, but he could only assume it had something to do with Mrs. Hudson.

Upon opening the door to the sitting room, it was clear that he was very much mistaken. Holmes was sitting down in the chair closest to the fireplace (again, the fire was blazing on such a warm day), in conversation with a plump fiery red-headed man that Watson had never seen before. The stranger looked very distraught, although Watson could not tell whether it was about the conversation, or having to be so obviously overheated by the heat from the fire.

Regardless of his curiosity, Watson's face flushed as he stammered, "I'm so sorry. I've interrupted–"

Holmes regarded him with another one of his large smirks. "You could not possibly have come at a better time, doctor!" he said cordially. When Watson moved to shut the door, Holmes leapt from his chair, and over the settee, to stop Watson from closing it. 

"I was afraid that you were engaged," Watson replied quietly, looking uncertainly at the red-headed man again. 

"So I am," Holmes nodded. "Very much so."

"Then I can go back–"

"Not at all," Holmes insisted, pulling the door to the stairs fully open. He turned to the red-headed man, who now looked positively confused, and gestured to Watson. "This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, shares my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. I have no doubt that he will lend us some assistance in your problem." He turned back to Watson, "Try the settee, doctor. It is quite comfortable." 

"But, Mr. Holmes-"

"I assure you, you will not regret it," Holmes replied in almost a whisper that caught Watson's breath. Clearly his words had multiple meanings. Something shone in Holmes' eyes then, Watson noticed. 

Watson would later realize that the moment he walked over to the settee, thus giving into Holmes' whim, was the moment he was truly thrust into Holmes' world. Had he stayed upstairs, safe, with his sea novel adventures and painful memories of the war, things would have never become so complicated. He and Holmes would have shared rooms for some months, sharing polite, but vacuous, conversation that would result in some kind of stronger acquaintance, but would have never moved any further. Eventually, Watson would have met a nice woman, and moved on, never knowing the depths of mystery that Holmes was truly hiding behind those grey eyes. 

But Stamford was right. Watson did enjoy a good mystery. And Sherlock Holmes was the biggest one Watson ever encountered. Thus, he never regretted sitting down on the settee, waiting for Holmes to bring him into the mysterious world of 221B Baker Street.

 


	2. In Which Watson Joins Holmes On A Case

Mr. Jabez Wilson's problem was a very elaborate prank involving him and a mysterious red-headed league. He was inducted out for the so-called league after answering a newspaper advertisement. But after just a few weeks of reaping the benefits of his new membership, the league suddenly closed under further peculiar circumstances. While Mr. Wilson did present a strange mystery, Watson was at a loss on why the stout man had come to Holmes in the first place. His story about the red-headed league recruitment, and then sudden disbursement, _was_ highly unusual, but it seemed counter-intuitive to reveal the story an uninvolved party, which would only serve to further his embarrassment. Why share the story at all? After their "guest" left, Watson turned to Holmes with a confused look on his face. "Mr. Holmes, are you a policeman?"

This time Holmes truly did laugh. It was a deep boom, the sound grating on Watson's already frayed nerves. "Truly doctor, you couldn't possibly think–"

"I didn't say that I _did_ ," Watson countered defensively. "I only inquired, because I am at a loss on why Mr. Wilson would have come to you with such a peculiar story. He seemed very convinced that you were the only person who could discover some sort of answer to his mystery." 

"Allow me to ask you something, doctor." Striking a match, Holmes lit the pipe that sat beside him on the arm of his chair. "Why would a policeman even care about a missing, and very _fictitious_ I might add, Red-headed League?"

"They wouldn't."

"Precisely," Holmes nodded, blowing out a large cloud of smoke. "Which is why Mr. Wilson came to speak to _me_. But I must say you are getting warmer in your theories by the second, doctor. I would hazard a guess that you have nearly come to the truth of the matter."

Scoffing, Watson leaned back on the settee. "You give me far more credit than I deserve. I am not as quick as you think I am." When Holmes had turned his observant eye to Mr. Jabez Wilson, he had seen far more than a normal person would have seen. ' _A Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else,_ ' indeed. No normal person could so correctly identify all of the traits at one glance. But whilst Mr. Wilson felt relief when Holmes had explained the how, Watson could not help but become further intrigued. Holmes had said that his profession gave him further practice to hone his observational skills. But his were inhuman! "What if I simply asked: what is it you do Mr. Holmes?"

A smile quickly crossed Holmes' lips before he schooled his expression back into its normal position. "The direct approach," he said between his pipe, an eyebrow raised. "Very original." He let out another cloud of smoke as he leaned his head on his free hand. "I must admit, you intrigue me, Doctor Watson. The candor of your speech is not something one often experiences."

"You could address me with something less formal, Mr. Holmes. After all, we are going to be sharing the same digs for the time being."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "One would think you would like formality after your days in the Army."

"Quite the contrary, actually," Watson replied, sighing. 

"Shall I call you _John_ then?" Holmes asked, clearly amused as he tilted his head to the side. "Why I do not think I have used anyone's Christian name since I was a schoolboy. Are we to don jumpers and run around the rooms playing tag as well?"

Watson shifted in his seat, annoyed by Holmes' obvious delight in making him feel uncomfortable (not to mention very clearly avoiding the question Watson posed to him). "Your fanciful teasing aside, if you like, you may call me John– as long as I am given the same liberty and can call you _Sherlock_."

At the sound of his given name, Holmes visibly tensed and winced. Grinding his teeth on the mouthpiece of his pipe, Holmes said, "There are only two people _on this Earth_ who are allowed to call me by that name, and you are not either of them."

" _Holmes_ , then," Watson supplied, docketing away that scrap of information. 

"It would be quite uneven of me to call you _John,_ under those circumstances, would it not?" He took the pipe away from his lips and stared at Watson. Again those haunting grey eyes of Holmes rattled Watson to the core, yet he could not find it in him to turn away. Although it was only for mere seconds, when Watson recalled the moment later, it would seem like hours. 

Finally breaking the silence, Watson swallowed hard and then said, "It would not be disagreeable if you used my surname as well, then. To 'even it' as it were."

" _Watson_ ," Holmes said, clearly trying it out on the tongue. "Watson." He considered briefly. He brought the pipe back up to his mouth, and nodded. "Indeed. Returning to the matter at hand: your question as to what it is that I 'do,' I believe was the inquiry? To put it simply, I am a consulting detective."

Leaning forward on the settee, Watson raised an eyebrow. "A _consulting_ detective? Which entails what exactly?"

"People come to me with mysteries to solve, that are either too much, too fantastic, or too private for the police to handle," Holmes explained, sounding slightly annoyed as he waved his hand flippantly in the air. "Really Watson, after the spectacle Mr. Jabez Wilson just presented, I really thought you would have a better handle on the concept."

"Honestly, his problem sounded more like it came from one of Poe's mysteries," Watson said, with a shrug. 

Holmes looked thoroughly un-amused. "Am I playing the part of Dupin then?" Visibly disgusted, Holmes turned his head away. "No doubt you think that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Poe's silly detective," he observed sharply. He got up from his chair and stood by the mantle. "Watson I think you'll find that Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial."

"You have shown you have the same remarkable talent," Watson interjected. "You have done nothing but read my mind since I walked into these rooms!" 

"I'm merely observant," Holmes offered, shaking his head. 

"Hmm, yes. Your ' _Omne ignotum pro magnifico,_ ' was it?" Although Watson's Latin abilities were never particularly strong, he could at least understand _everything becomes commonplace by explanation_ , although it was a very lose translation. 

"Nothing more. I cannot help it if your mind is quite easy for me to read, Watson. You do not guard your thoughts in any way." When Watson's face flushed and opened his mouth to speak, Holmes put up a hand to stop him. "I am not saying that is a negative trait. I can perceive that you are a very passionate man. I, however, am quite the opposite– as you no doubt have noticed. It has helped me enormously in my profession."

Watson _had_ noticed. In fact, he was beginning to wonder whether Holmes had yet to show a genuine expression or feeling yet. 

Drawing upon his Army training, Watson tried to school his features into a blank expression. "Can you deduce what am I thinking at this moment?"

With a brief chuckle, Holmes brought his pipe back up to his mouth. "While my deductive reasoning may be amusing to you, it is not a parlor trick. I really should be focusing my efforts on the problem Mr. Wilson presented to me, do you not agree? After all, I _was_ commissioned to do so. If I do not perform my duties then providing my half of the rent money will be very difficult indeed." He let out a puff of smoke and then rested the hand holding the pipe on the mantle place. He glanced over his shoulder. "What do you make of it, Watson?"

"I make nothing of it," Watson shrugged. "It is a most mysterious business."

"As a rule, the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify." Holmes pressed the mouthpiece of his pipe to his forehead and tapped it against it a few times. "But I must be prompt over this matter."

"What are you going to do, then?"

Holmes looked over to Watson and smirked again. "To smoke," he declared, returning to his chair. "It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." Snuggling into his chair, Holmes placed the pipe in his mouth and began puffing away furiously while his marble eyes stared into space.

Raising an eyebrow, Watson got up from the settee. "While you are doing that, shall I tidy up the room?"

Making an impatient noise, Holmes furiously waved for silence. Watson could only take that as an affirmative and began to pick up the papers on the floor. While Watson assumed the mess was its own sort of madness, there was a method to it all despite their carelessness from moving his trunk. While it was not sorted neatly, everything on the floor had something to do with a case of robberies over the past five years. All small matters that hardly received any coverage from the newspapers, as the articles clipped were very short indeed. Mostly the papers were notes that Watson assumed Holmes had written himself. Meticulous notes that discussed small details from the crimes. Each of the papers had a name written somewhere near the article: Adler. When Watson tried to inquire of Holmes who this Adler was, the detective ignored him and continued to smoke his pipe. 

Before Watson realized it, he was reading the case notes and articles more than cleaning up. It was only a knock at the door that jolted him back to reality. He looked to Holmes, who had his eyes closed and was clearly ignoring even the knocking.

Watson maneuvered his way to the door. Stumbling the last few steps, as his foot caught on one of the open books, he then opened the door to find a smiling Mrs. Hudson, baring a tray of sandwiches. The sight of food caused Watson's stomach to growl loudly. It was only then that he remembered that he hadn't eaten since the night before. Smiling widely at the landlady, Watson said, "Mrs. Hudson, thank you so much."

"Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson for interrupting my train of thought once more!" Holmes drawly replied, taking a long puff from his pipe. "I thought an hour of peace was too much to ask for!"

With a _hmph!_ Mrs. Hudson headed back down the stairs muttering things about ungrateful tenants.

Torn on what to do, Watson hovered at the doorway for a moment, holding the tray of sandwiches. Finally, sighing, he said, "Perhaps you shouldn't snap at her so." As he spoke, Watson walked the sandwich tray over to the small dining table that was in the sitting room. He had to push a small pile of papers off of it to make room for the tray. 

"Never mind Mrs. Hudson," Holmes snapped, waving his hand dismissively. "I have neither the time nor the patience to spare for her Scottish temperaments. There are more pressing matters." Holmes jumped to his feet and placed his pipe on the mantle. "Come, Watson!" He ran to the door and grabbed his top-hat and walking stick. 

Bewildered, Watson stared. "But lunch–" 

"Hang lunch! We have some inquiries to see to!" Holmes called, running down the stairs.

For a moment Watson was unsure of what to do. He glanced at the table and tray of sandwiches. He was rather hungry. However, the intrigue of possibly witnessing more of Holmes' talents in use–

He quickly grabbed his hat, hoping that Holmes had not gone too far ahead.

 

Holmes and Watson traveled together by the underground to Aldergate, following by a short walk to Saxe-Coburg Square where the shabby pawn brokerage that bared the sign "Jabez Wilson" was located. The street was not quite what Watson had imagined. It was run down, filled with shops that looked as if they were abandoned for years. What was ironic was that not one block over, the streets were with filled with commerce and bustling people. It seemed Mr. Wilson's street was the area's forgotten shadow. 

Curious as to what the consulting detective was doing, Watson observed as Holmes started at the pawn brokerage and then walked in the street a few feet, tapping his walking-stick on the pavement a few times. He then returned to the entrance of the pawn brokerage. He did this five times before he stopped and smiled. "Remarkable," Holmes said.

"What is, Holmes?" Watson asked, extremely perplexed by Holmes' behavior.

Instead of answering, Holmes knocked on the door. It instantly opened to reveal the man that Mr. Jabez Wilson had described as Vincent Spaulding, acid mark and all. He invited the two gentlemen inside, but Holmes simply smiled. Holmes put on a far more charming imitation then what he had shown Mrs. Hudson not an hour previous. "Thank you, but no. I only wished to ask you how you would go from here to the Strand."

Vincent Spaulding easily gave the directions and sent them on their way. As they walked, Holmes began to chuckle. "What an incredibly smart fellow!" he exclaimed. "He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London."

Watson looked to the detective incredulously. "If you are bestowing that title because of his directions, Holmes, I am grieved to tell you that even _I_ could have told you how to get to the Strand."

Holmes let out another laugh. "Not quite, Doctor! Not quite!" He grabbed Watson's elbow and lead him into a nearby alleyway. With a smirk, Holmes said, "It was not the directions that I was commenting on, _Watson_. Tell me, did you happen to notice _Mr. Spaulding's_ knees?"

"His knees?" 

"Yes, Watson. His knees. Precisely the knees on his trousers. They were stained." Holmes replied. The grin on his face grew wider. "Yes, this business is quite serious."

"Is it something to do with your striking the pavement?" Watson asked, still trying to grasp Holmes' line of thinking. 

However, Holmes' attention was already turned back to the street. Watson was not sure whether Holmes had heard his question, or simply ignored it. Holmes was muttering to himself. " _The little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of City and Suburban Bank–_ " As Watson was about to open his mouth to ask his question again, Holmes turned to him with his grey marble-like eyes shining bright. "And now, Doctor, we've done out work, so it is time we had some play."

"But Holmes–"

Holmes once more grabbed Watson's elbow and lead him back to the main street. "My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in enemy territory," the detective whispered in a playful tone. Once they arrived on the main street, Holmes turned to the doctor once more. "I do believe there are some more inquiries to be made, Watson. This is definitely an evil business, and what's more we are under certain time constraints."

"Time constraints?" Watson asked, shaking his head.

For a moment, Holmes simply stared at the doctor with his penetrating eyes. Then his mouth slowly formed a very crafty smirk. "Of course! I must hasten elsewhere, you see. Sarasate is playing at St. James this afternoon with a good deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect." He hesitated for a moment, eyeing Watson. "You may join me for the concert, if you wish?"

Trying to hide his embarrassment, Watson replied, "I must confess I am a bit tired from our little adventure today."

Watson expected the detective to become a bit annoyed at his refusal, but instead Holmes mealy began to walk again, still holding Watson by the elbow. "Well of course you are!" Holmes said. Watson couldn't help but hear a slight amount of condescension in his voice. "Dear me how much this little investigation of mine must have drained you!" 

"It's not that, Holmes," Watson shook his head. "I am deeply fascinated, although admittedly a bit lost– while you and I have seen the same things, clearly you have deduced more than I. It is not that I am tired by this line of inquiry, it is simply..." Watson's voice trailed off as he looked to his leg. 

Holmes nodded in understanding. "Say no more, Watson. You will at least accompany me for a bit longer? You see, I do believe I owe you lunch after I dragged you away so quickly from Mrs. Hudson's culinary delights. A sandwich and a cup of coffee are in order, I believe?"

Staring at Holmes for a moment, Watson then smiled. "Yes, I do believe I have the strength for that at least."

Holmes smiled as well and from the shine in the detective's eyes, Watson could have sworn it was the first genuine smile that he had witnessed from Holmes. A flush came over Watson's neck and he had to quickly turn away to spare any further embarrassment.

"Shall we?" Watson gruffly said as he pulled away from Holmes' grip and took the lead.

For Watson, lunch was a surreal event. Apparently, not only did his new acquaintance possess unearthly deduction skills, but he was quite knowledgeable in many fields. But it was strange, for all the knowledge he possessed, Watson was quite surprised by Holmes' lack of what Watson would call "practical knowledge." Such as political matters, or public figures–unless they were involved in crimes, then Holmes' knowledge would be overwhelming. It seemed that Sherlock Holmes did indeed have some limits, and that came to somewhat of a relief to Watson. It proved that the man he had just decided to share his life with (at least for the time being) was not some sort of calculating machine, devoid of any faults. 

The two parted after lunch, Holmes to his inquiries and concert, Watson back to 221B. The train ride back was a bit lonely for the doctor. It wasn't as if Holmes had kept a conversation during their train ride, but it suddenly felt a bit awkward traveling alone. Exasperated with himself, Watson muttered reminders that until today, alone had been his state of being for the last two months. 

Mrs. Hudson warmly welcomed Watson home, making the expected polite inquires about the journey. "I hope Mr. Holmes is not going to bring you along all of the time," she said, worriedly. "Some of his visitors– well, they look to be quite a bit rough lot. Not to mention the countless times Mr. Holmes has returned looking as if he had been on the losing end of a fisticuff fight."

"I doubt that I will be drug along all the time," Watson shrugged. "The case presented was just rather strange, that's all. It piqued my interest, so I thought I would join him in some of his inquiries." He glanced up the stairs, wondering how he could politely leave this conversation with Mrs. Hudson and retreat to one of the comfortable chairs in their sitting room. 

Apparently following his line of thinking, Mrs. Hudson said, "I suppose you'll be wanting to put your feet up after all of that." Her smile faltered a little. "I haven't had a chance to pick up all of Mr. Holmes' new mess–"

Watson laughed. "Does that often to you, does he? Not to worry, Mrs. Hudson. I'll take care of it."

"Oh I couldn't possibly–"

Shaking his head, he replied, "Nonsense! I insist." As Watson began to walk up the stairs, he added, "And I will do my best to encourage Holmes to keep it that way this time! I cannot abide by messy rooms either!" 

As he opened the door to their rooms, Watson was quite sure he heard Mrs. Hudson snort.

Somehow, the room was in a worse state than he remembered. But that was quite impossible, since he and Holmes left at the same time, and there was no possible way for Holmes to have beaten him home. Perhaps the mess was due to their hasty exit? Well, it didn't matter, and staring at the paper covered floor would not clean it any faster.

It took Watson longer than expected to make sense of Holmes' erratic filing system. Some articles were sorted by year, such as the crime articles without handwritten notations. Those baring notes concerning figures predominately featured in the article instead were placed in one of several journals that were kept in alphabetical order. There were some personal papers mixed in the mess. Unsure where to place them, Watson tried the drawer in the writing desk. However, it was locked. Instead he placed the papers on the top of the desk, reminding himself to tell Holmes where he placed them. 

By the time he had cleared a majority of the mess, the light in the room was waning and the settee looked so comfortable. Watson had only planned to sit to relax his throbbing leg for a few minutes as he tried to sort through more of the 'Adler' papers. But, despite his best efforts, Watson drifted to sleep.


	3. In Which The First Case Comes To An End

It was the sound of a creaking drawer that woke Watson. He quickly realized how long he had been sleeping, as the sky was fully dark now, and the room was filled with the orange glow of the fireplace. His eyes quickly scanned over to Holmes' work desk, where indeed Holmes was taking something out of his desk drawer. Holmes made no acknowledgement of Watson, so the doctor assumed that the detective was unaware he was now awake. In fact, the detective was very deliberately moving as silent as he could. Watson made no movement, and pretended to still be sleeping while watching Holmes with lidded eyes. Holmes removed a small case from the drawer, in which there was a small vial, syringe and a tourniquet. Watson watched as Holmes administered whatever drug it might have been. In fact, he became so distracted, he neglected to remember the papers he had fallen asleep holding. The papers fell to the ground, destroying the silence in the room just as Holmes replaced the syringe back in its case. Without any hesitation, Holmes dropped the case in the open drawer and locked it before turning his attention back to the settee. "Have a good rest, doctor?" Holmes asked, nonchalantly.

"It was..." he replied. Watson stared at the detective for a moment. He attempted to use the same deductive powers he had seen Holmes use that morning on Jabez Wilson. However, the only thing Watson could deduce was that Holmes had indeed attended a concert, but only because of the program that was carelessly thrown on the floor at his feet. "After our adventure through town today, I needed it. How did the rest of your inquiries go?"

"Splendidly," Holmes replied, his eyes unnaturally glowing. "Although the factor that today is Saturday does make the case a bit more difficult." With one fluid motion, Holmes pushed himself off the chair to standing. He pushed out the back of his jacket with a flourish and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Tell me Dr. Watson, have you any arms?"

Watson raised an eyebrow. "I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges, yes. Why?"

"Is it clean?" Holmes asked. He was clearly ignoring the question imposed on himself.

Watson shook his head. "Holmes, yes, but _why_?"

"To see the end of your first case as my associate, of course! If you would be so kind to bring it with you when we go out this evening. I fear this case may turn for the violent, and I would rather that you be protected."

Now frustrated, Watson replied, "Holmes, I realize that you are capable of reading my mind, but may I remind you that I do _not_ share the same talents! What _are_ you talking about?"

Sighing dramatically, Holmes hung his head. "Really, doctor, I have made the situation quite clear."

Watson let out a snort.

Holmes could not help but laugh at that. "My, my, Watson! You do possess a pawky kind of humor." Watson, however, did not find it all that amusing. His frustrations were making him very red in the face, indeed. As he was about to open his mouth again, no doubt to tell Holmes what he thought of this so-called _pawky humor_ , Holmes put a hand up to quiet him. "And a temper too? Not something I would have expected of an Army doctor."

Now it was Watson's turn to laugh. "Good lord, you are a slithery one! I simply want to know why my revolver will be needed in the solution of a simple prank."

Shrugging his shoulders, Holmes replied, "You will have to join me on my dangerous nocturnal expedition this evening to find out."

Before Watson could reply, there was a knock at the door. Holmes, his grin growing wider, called, "Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" However his marble eyes continued to stare at Watson.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Jones of Scotland Yard and his guest have arrived," Mrs. Hudson called through the door.

The detective's eyes did not waver from Watson's face. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Do show them up."

His new acquaintance was quite an eccentric fellow, Watson already knew. But he did not realize just how strange Sherlock Holmes could act until the moment he heard the door click open. It was like a switch within Holmes had been triggered. His attention was now occupied with something else, Watson assumed. He was beginning to think that the consulting detective had a kind of flippant nature– quickly jumping from one thing to another. It would account for the messes he made of both his filing and the floor in the sitting room.

After short greetings, Holmes introduced the two men to Watson. "Gentlemen, this is my new associate Doctor Watson. Doctor Watson, this is Mr. Jones of Scotland Yard."

The officer was a tall, thick man with a plain face, but he had a very large smile which made him seem friendly. Watson instantly liked him. "Nice to meet you, Doctor Watson," Jones said, shaking the Doctor's hand. "I see you have us hunting in couples again, Holmes!" In a loud whisper, he added, "Be careful, Doctor. Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down."

"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase," the other guest said. He was a long, thin, sad-faced man with a shiny hat and an oppressively respectable frock-coat.

Holmes only smiled, but Watson could see it was a pained one. "This is Mr. Merryweather, Doctor Watson," Holmes said in an annoyed tone. "He will also be accompanying us on tonight's adventure."

Mr. Merryweather snorted. "Adventure indeed. This is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I will be missing my game of rubber and–"

"I think you will find," Holmes said, cutting off what promised to be a longer rant from Mr. Merryweather. "That tonight our game's stakes will be much higher. Some £300,000 higher. And for you, Jones, a chance to lay your hands on the criminal John Clay."

The three men continued their conversation for a few minutes while Watson watched feeling absolutely bewildered. What did this John Clay have to do with Mr. Jabez Wilson and the red-headed league? Or £300,000 at that? Mr. Wilson had already informed them of being low on funds, and £300,000 was hardly a small sum. Maybe Holmes has mistaken the case that Watson had been privy to in the morning– yes that would explain it. The way he jumps from one thing to another, it was possible for Holmes to have forgotten all about the odd red-headed league and mistook that Watson was awake of whatever case the detective was trying to solve that night.

His thoughts absorbing him, Watson did not realize that Holmes was calling for him repeatedly until he heard a very sharp, " _Watson!_ "

Watson's attention snapped back to the sitting room, where the three men were now starring at him. He felt his face flush. "Y-yes, Holmes?"

For a second, Watson thought he had seen an amused look on Holmes' face, but it quickly reverted back to Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. "It's almost time for us to depart. If you could kindly fetch your army revolver and put it in your pocket?" Watson nodded. "Good man. Meet us downstairs, if you would."

"Yes, yes," Watson said without thinking. He went up the narrow staircase to his room as he heard the other three gentlemen begin their decent down the seventeen steps to the ground floor. Retrieving the revolver he put it in one of his jacket pockets, and the few cartridges he had left in the other.

There were two cabs parked in front of 221b. One of the carriage doors was open, with Holmes beckoning Watson towards it. As Watson sat down in the cab, Holmes closed his eyes and began to hum softly while tapping the ridding crop in his hand in time with the melody. The detective seemed content in a world of his own melody and completely disinterested in Watson's presence at all. Sighing, Watson turned to the window and watched the buildings pass while occasionally turning to the still humming detective. Holmes, for his part, was beginning to hum louder and louder, until he finally was outright singing. At that point, Watson grumbled aloud, "Well clearly you injected yourself with some sort of stimulant."

Stopping mid-note, Holmes turned to Watson with a large smile. "Oh, so you have decided to stop pretending that you did not see me inject myself."

"I was only trying to be considerate of your privacy," Watson sharply replied. "But yes, I did. I thought you said your only faults were violin playing and isolation."

Shrugging, Holmes said, "Those were the only faults that could have any effect on your decision when it came to sharing rooms with me. Surely you took note of my expertise when administrating the drug?"

"And I am supposed to feel relief from that?"

Holmes sighed dramatically as he looked up to the roof of the cab. "You should deduce that I have been at it for quite awhile, and feel assurance from my experience. I do know what I am doing, and that should be the end of it. My body is my own, and not one for you to worry over. Believe me, I have done far worse to it in my years on this earth."

"May I at _least_ know what you are injecting into yourself?" At the raising of Holmes' eyebrow, Watson hastily added, "In case anything was to ever go wrong, I would know how to approach the situation. I _am_ a doctor."

After considering this for a moment, Holmes nodded. "Very well. This evening it is cocaine. A seven-percent solution. Sometimes it is morphine. But only when I need stillness. Peace. For the hunt, I require cocaine. I find it so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind."

Cocaine and morphine? Was the man insane? Unable to hold in his thoughts, Watson burst out, "But have you considered the danger! Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process which involves increased tissue-change and may at least leave a permanent weakness! Not to mention what adverse effects either substance could have on your heart after prolonged use."

Instead of being offended, Holmes smiled. Passing lamp-light shone into the cab, giving Holmes' marble-eyes an eerie glow. Holmes' expression turned serious. He spoke in a low, soft whisper. "I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have become what I am."

"The only unofficial detective?"

Holmes let out a soft laugh. "That as well." Before Watson could inquire further, the cab came to a full stop. The serious look on Holmes' face changed into that of the enthusiastic consulting detective once more. With a smile, he opened the cab door with much flourish. "We are here, Doctor Watson! Come, it is time for the final act of our little adventure!" Holmes leapt out of the cab and offered Watson his hand.

As Watson exited the cab, he realized the very same street that he and Holmes had been on this morning when visiting Mr. Wilson's shop. "But, Holmes–!"

Holmes placed a finger on the doctor's lips. "We must be vigilant and silent."

Mr. Merryweather led the group over to a side entrance of the Sax-Coberg Bank, which he opened for the group. There was a small corridor inside, which led down several flights of stairs. Mr. Merryweather indicated that the group was to follow behind him as he lit a small lantern. The passageways that he led the gentlemen through became smaller and shorter, while a musty-earth smell became ever stronger. At the end of the stairs, there was a tall iron gate, which blocked the entrance to a larger room.

"You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked, holding the lantern high. He slowly moved the lantern so the light filled the corridor.

"Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking the stone floor. A hallow sound echoed loudly throughout the chamber. Mr. Merryweather's expression turned confused. "What–!"

Furious, Holmes grabbed Mr. Merryweather's walking stick. "I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" he said, glaring. "You have might have already ruined the success of our endeavor. If you would kindly unlock this gate, Mr. Merryweather and then please refrain from making any further noise."

Solemnly, Mr. Merryweather took a chained key from his breast pocket, and unlocked the door for the group. He pointed to a large crate towards the far wall. "There is our French gold," whispered the director.

Watson turned to Mr. Merryweather, eyes wide. "Your French gold?" He tried to grasp how the chain of events somehow connected, but had to admit he was at a definite loss. What did French gold have to do with Mr. Jabez Wilson?

"Yes," Mr. Merryweather continued. "We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. _Somehow_ ," he glared at Holmes, "Mr. Holmes has become aware that we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. One crate contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil."

Holmes entered first, jumping to a clear area in the middle of the cellar and placing his right ear to the tile floor. He then took out a magnifying glass and examined the cracks in the stones.

Watson wanted to know what it was they were doing in the bank's cellar, but was concerned about being on the receiving end of Holmes' annoyance. "Holmes–" he whispered.

"Yes, Watson?" Holmes said, turning his attention completely towards Watson. The annoyance towards Mr. Merryweather had completely vanished. Trying to carefully choose his words, Watson found himself unable to form a question that did not sound completely idiotic. Holmes stood on his knees and gave the doctor a wan smile. "We have at least an hour before us; I do hope you can form your question before then." Holmes then turned to Jones, who had decided his best place was to stand by the gate and wait for instructions. "This is much bolder and larger in conception than I first thought. Wouldn't you say, Jones?"

"Clay is more of an amateur adventurer who does things on the spur of the moment," Jones shrugged. "He's not one for the longer term planning needed to pull this."

"Unless he's a pawn in a much larger game..."

"You don't mean..." Jones stared for a moment. "For heaven's sake, Mr. Holmes! There is _no_ proof that your _Professor Moriarty_ has anything to do with this."

"There is never _any_ proof," Holmes snapped. "That is the genius of his work! Jones, I swear to you that you cannot understand him as I do. You must listen to me–"

"Lestrade warned me about this," Jones countered, "I wish you would just leave that poor man alone. This must be something more simple. Clay joined up with a friend who planned all of this, that is all. From what you told me someone else was needed to deceive Mr. Wilson with the red-headed league, so it must be the accomplice's plan."

At the mention of the name Mr. Wilson, Watson's eyebrows raised in surprised. All of this... the bank cellar, the gold, John Clay... it all had something to do with Mr. Wilson? Holmes hadn't mistaken cases? But even with the facts that he knew, Watson was not sure how everything pieced together. He thought back to their afternoon trip to Mr. Wilson's pawn shop and meeting the young apprentice. And something about his knees? And Holmes tapping on the pavement as he walked towards the bank... _Oh, good lord!_ Watson thought, finally beginning to understand how it all connected and how they were just in time to prevent a great crime from being committed. "Holmes!" Watson's loud whisper interrupted Jones and Holmes' bickering.

Holmes chortled. He took out his pocket watch and said, "I see you understand the stakes now, Watson. Very good. But it is now time that we arranged our little plans."

It was settled that they would sit in the dark and wait for John Clay and his accomplice to emerge from what Watson now realized was an elaborately planned tunnel. Holmes requested for Jones and Watson to have their weapons at the ready. The path on the origin of the tunnel, which Watson now understood was Mr. Jabez Wilson's basement, was also guarded by two policemen; therefore there would be no escape for Clay.

Watson was a bit uneasy at the idea of shooting anyone, robbing French gold or no, so he placed his revolver, cocked, on the crate beside him– within reach in case the situation became dangerous. Before the lantern was completely covered, Watson looked to Holmes, who was smiling brilliantly while holding his ridding crop tightly in his hands. His eyes shone in the lantern light. The detective looked quite mad at that moment. It was not a sight that comforted the doctor in the slightest.

The long wait in the dark, thankfully did not last longer than the predicted hour. A small glint of light cut through the suffocating darkness. A delicate hand slowly pushed one of the stone tiles up. A clean-cut, boyish face appeared. The thief pulled himself up into the cellar until one knee rested on the edge. After a moment, he reached into the hole and pulled his companion up, a man with shocking red hair.

"It's all clear," Clay whispered. But then there was a movement. From the corner of his eye, Watson saw Holmes slide forward to capture the two thieves. "Jump, Archie, jump! I'll swing for it!"

Several things happened at once. Holmes sprang towards Clay, grabbing him by the collar. Archie escaped into the hole just as Jones leapt towards him. The revolver in Clay's hand flashed in the light. Before Watson could grab his own revolver, Holmes and slapped his ridding crop down on Clay's wrist. The revolver made a very satisfying _clang_ on the tile floor. Nevertheless, Watson grabbed aimed his revolver at Clay, cautious of any more surprises.

Meanwhile, Jones let out a frustrated growl as he threw what he had managed to catch: the accomplice's jacket.

"It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly. "You have no chance at all."

"So I see." Clay stared at Holmes, a sort-of smirk on his face. "I fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails."

Holmes smiled. "There are two men waiting for him at the door or Mr. Wilson's pawn shop."

"You seem to have done the thing very completely. I compliment you."

"And I you," Holmes answered, still grinning. "Your red-headed idea was very new and effective. Although I rather doubt it was yours."

Clay snorted. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Oh, I think you do."

 

Watson leaned back in his seat as Holmes watched the buildings pass out of the cab window. Without looking at his companion, Holmes said, "You have some questions still remaining about the case?"

"Well," Watson cleared his throat. "It's just... I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbors, but I have seen what you have seen, heard what you have heard, and yet you have seen not only what _had_ happened but what was _about_ to happen while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque."

Holmes scoffed. "Be honest with me, Watson– it is something that I insist on. For I can tell when you are _lying_. I realize that you believed that I was, and probably still am, quite mad."

"I was not sure how John Clay fit together with the red-headed league. That does not mean that I thought you were mad." Holmes glanced at Watson, making the doctor clear his throat again. "Fine, I did. You must excuse me, for it is clear that I do not understand your line of thinking when it came to this case."

With a delighted chuckle, Holmes explained what pieces Watson had not yet put together. How Holmes had realized the ingenious plan of the red-headed league and its efforts to vacate Mr. Wilson of Mr. Wilson's shop during the day so they could dig the tunnel towards the bank's cellar. For what was the £4 a week to they who were playing for thousands? Watson could not help but be drawn into Holmes' elaborate explanation. "But the true genius in the plan," Holmes explained, "was that it was almost completely untraceable. For who would bother to listen to Mr. Wilson's ravings about a league of red-headed men? No, while Clay does have some brains about him, the mastermind behind this scheme could have been none other than Moriarty."

"You said that name in the cellar. Who is this Moriarty?"

Holmes' expression turned very serious. "For years I have continually been conscious of some power behind the malefactor, some deep organizing power in this great city... one which forever stands in the way of the law, and throws its shield over the wrong-doer. Again and again in cases of the most varying sorts–forgery cases, robberies, murders–I have felt the presence of this force, and I have deduced its action in many of those undiscovered crimes in which I have not been personally consulted. I have endeavored to break through the veil which shrouded it, and at last the time came when I seized my thread and followed it, until it led me, after a thousand cunning windings, to an ex-Professor named James Moriarty, of mathematical celebrity.

"He is the Napoleon of crime, Watson. He is the organizer of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city. He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He has a brain of the first order. He sits motionless, like a spider in the centre of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them. He does little himself, he only plans. But his agents are numerous and splendidly organized. If there is a crime to be done, a paper to be abstracted, we will say, a house to be rifled, a man to be removed– the word is passed to the professor, the matter is organized and carried out. The agent may be caught. In that case money is found for his bail or his defense. But the central power which uses the agent is never caught–never so much as suspected. This was the organization which I deduced, Watson, and which I devoted my whole energy to exposing and breaking up. Despite the fact he is not a man to be trifled with, Scotland Yard still have yet to understand just how dangerous that man can be. I am afraid that it will not be until some terrible event that they finally will listen to me."

Seeing the expression on Holmes‘ face grow ever darker, Watson tried to not lose the exhilaration of the solved crime. "Still, tonight you reasoned it all out beautifully," Watson exclaimed in unfeigned admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true!"

"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already feel it closing in upon me!" Holmes looked back out the window. They were nearing Baker Street now.

"You are a benefactor of the race," Watson insisted, still in complete awe of Holmes' powers.

Holmes sighed again. Slowly he turned his head towards Watson, looking as serious as he had when facing down John Clay. "Do not make me a hero, doctor. Strike it from your mind. I can see it in your eyes even now. I am not what you think I am. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so. The narrative of the red-headed league seemed intriguing. That is the only reason why I took the case, not for the charity of Mr. Wilson, for I am quite heartless."

After a moment, Watson quietly said, "I think you are being too modest."

"Modest?" Holmes chuckled. "Modest? My dear Watson, I cannot agree with those who rank modesty among the virtues. To the logician all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate one's self is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one's own powers." When Watson looked as if he were about to argue, the cab came to a stop. They had arrived to their home at 221B Baker Street. Holmes exited the cab first, and then extended his hand to the doctor. Whatever the doctor was going to say was lost. "I believe you will come to understand after a longer exposure," Holmes said as Watson stepped onto the street. "You will come to see the truth."

As Holmes fetched the keys to the door of 221B, a young man from behind them said, "Goodnight, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Watson instantly turned around, searching out who had spoken, only to see the young man already having passed by, holding his hat close to his face. Watson turned back to the detective, intending to inquire if he knew the boy. However, Holmes' expression was frozen in an indescribable agitation. He stood still for a few moments, and finally shook his head before opening the door to 221B. When Watson inquired again, Holmes said nothing about the matter.


	4. In Which Mycroft Holmes Pays A Visit

In a few days it became clear to Watson just how busy Sherlock Holmes, private consulting detective, was. It seemed as if every other morning he heard Mrs. Hudson knock loudly on their door far earlier in the morning than what would be considered decent, and within a few minutes, Holmes would be knocking on Watson's door asking if he would like to sit in on the case. He was not sure _why_ Holmes would request his presence, as it seemed to the doctor that Holmes was doing just fine on his own, but he would accept the invitations. He took to writing notes during the cases, if only for his own reference, as Holmes never asked to have any details from cases repeated. When a case was over Watson took great delight in reviewing their adventures. He thought perhaps one day, if Holmes allowed it, he could chronicle their cases.

It also quickly became clear that what Holmes had told Watson the evening of their first case was true: the detective only cared for his clients while they were presenting a mystery. Once the matter was solved, there was no longer a need for them. This frustrated Watson, but it was impossible for him to make the detective understand why he should have a better relationship with clients. Holmes' reasoning was if he got emotionally involved with every client, how would he ever get anything done?

Then there was two weeks of no cases.

Watson had never witnessed a man fall apart so quickly, even in the battlefields of Afghanistan. Whenever he saw the damned Morocco case on Holmes' desk, a chill ran through his spine, for there was no telling what havoc the detective may create in his drugged state. Watson was quite sure that was how the bullet holes in the sitting room came to be, and he was not at all interested in Holmes decorating the room with further royal initials. The doctor attempted to steal the Morocco case several times, but with no avail. Holmes kept the drawer to the desk locked at all times, and despite his best efforts, Watson could not find the key, nor could he successfully pick the lock.

It was painful for Watson to watch Holmes' brilliant mind bend when under the influence of the horrid cocaine, or worse, morphine. Holmes' marble-like eyes made Watson uneasy enough normally, but under the influence of the drugs, the detective's eyes completely frightened Watson. They seemed to consume him whole, body and soul, and it was impossible to stay under their watchfulness for very long. Then came the black moods where Holmes would lash out at anything and everything as a reaction to the injection of drugs

When Holmes was without a case, besides the drugs to distract him, he worked at his chemical table, which possibly was worse. Watson stopped the rooms from burning down twice in those two weeks. There was also an incident with some kind of crystallized salt, which when exposed to flame gave out the most heinous smell. Holmes promptly evacuated himself and Watson from the sitting room as well as the vial that contained the substance. It was three hours before the detective allowed anyone back into the sitting room. The doctor wasn't sure what he preferred: Holmes at the chemistry table, happily creating mayhem that Watson would then have to quell; the drugged Holmes who would strangle his violin at three in the morning without mercy; or Holmes in a black mood, who while would make extremely scathing remarks when approached, would mostly keep to himself.

Watson realized that in order for them to live peacefully together, he would have to do one of two things. Either find Holmes cases to put his mind to work, or stay out of the rooms as much as possible while Holmes' lacked the proper mental stimulus of a case. Holmes did spend sometime working on his case notes. He began to pin them to the wall, creating an elaborate network of crime articles and photographs-- all which had the name _Moriarty_ scrawled on them. But even that could only hold the detective's attention for so long. With Holmes' capricious nature, it was incredibly difficult to find cases that he would actually take on. Watson tried to get Holmes interested in the crime _The Times_ covered every morning: Countess of Morcar's priceless blue carbuncle stolen from the Hotel Cosmopolitan. No one seen leaving the scene, and there was only one suspect, a chimney-sweep who proclaimed his innocence. The stone was still not located. Holmes was less than the slightest bit interested, declaring the case solved in that that the Countess' butler was sure to have been the culprit, despite the lack of any evidence indicating him. However, he would not take the case, as Scotland Yard had not bothered to call upon him.

Unable to entice Holmes with cases, Watson tried to spend time outside their rooms as frequently as his conscience would allow to keep things as peaceful as he could within their rooms. The weather turned to cold. It was December already, and the skies were threatening snow every day. The chill in the air only worsened the pain in Watson's injured leg.

On one of these afternoons, Watson returned to 221B, to find Mrs. Hudson standing at the bottom of the stairs to their rooms, listening intently while her hand was on her chest. As the front door shut, her attention snapped to Watson. "Oh! Doctor!" she said, rushing over to him. "It's Mr. Holmes, he–"

"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," Holmes' voice boomed through the hallway as the door to the sitting room slammed open. "Yet there never was a man who deserved punishment more! If the young lady had a brother or a friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders!"

Watson was already rushing up the seventeen stairs to their rooms, ignoring the severe protests of his aching leg. He could see Holmes standing at the doorway, flushed with anger, and a man, some thirty years old, who was clean shaven with sallow skin. Watson had never seen the man before, but the stranger was absolutely terrified of Holmes. It was understandable. Watson had never heard Holmes speak with such malevolent tone. The voice combined with his gangly height made Holmes quite the frightening man.

The detective took a step inside the sitting room, and inspected the hanger that was next to the door. "It is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to–" He took two swift steps to grab the crop, but before he could, the man raced down the steps, pushing Watson out of the way and ran into the stairway hall. The heavy hall door slammed shut as the stranger scrambled to get away from Holmes' wrath.

"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" Holmes looked to Watson, and burst out into laughter. He slapped the crop lightly in his free hand. "You've come at a crisis, Watson!"

"So I see. Who on earth was that?"

With a wave of his hand, Holmes said, "No, not that! That blaggard is one who will rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends in the gallows, no doubt. At least that case was, in some respects, not entirely devoid of interest." Holmes made his way back to his chemical table, where he was working on something new. "I was referring to–"

The sight of that poor man racing down the stairs was not something Watson was going to ignore. He cleared his throat. "You solved a case while I was out?"

"It was not a very complex matter," Holmes replied, shrugging as he sat at the chemical table. "Grotesque, yes, but simple. You need not worry yourself with it." Holmes gestured for the doctor to come into the sitting room.

Raising an eyebrow, Watson replied, "Holmes, I have never seen you become so emotional over a client. What on earth did that man do?"

"He was–" Holmes lowered the beaker in his right hand and let out a long breath. "He was a man who my client entrusted something very special to," he said. The detective closed his eyes and then added, "That blaggard took advantage of the trust given to him. The human heart is something easily lost. It is much harder to recover. Since I am powerless to convince my client otherwise–"

"You mean you have not told your client? You could have at least made her aware of this... Deception whatever it may be," Watson reasoned, speaking before he absorbed everything Holmes said. During their few months together, there had been small hints that Holmes was not the calculating machine he appeared to be. But this was the first time that Watson encountered any indication that Holmes thought of his clients' feelings. Watson sat on the settee, getting his small notebook out of his breast pocket.

Holmes looked over to Watson, his eyes disbelieving, however clear. It was the first time he had not seen the traces of cocaine or morphine in Holmes' eyes in days. " _There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and danger also for who also snatches a delusion from a woman._ " Turning his attention back to the experiment before him, he added, "That is all I will divulge, Watson. I would rather not have the details of this case recorded. Besides, we have other matters to discuss. While you were out-"

"I clearly missed quite a bit. I was only gone for two hours, Holmes!"

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Yes, and I see that even that might have been too long on your leg. Do you want me to have Mrs. Hudson fetch some hot towels for you?"

"That won't be necessary, Holmes." Watson put his notebook away, looking a bit disappointed that he would not be able to know the full story behind the fury that he had seen in the detective's eyes.

"I do not mean to be crass, my boy, but I will be requiring you to be able to move in less than an hour's time. I want to make sure that you will be able to."

"Why?" Watson asked, looking over to the table. "Where are we going?"

"I know nothing as of yet," Holmes said, still distracted by his experiment. "As I was attempting to tell you, while you were out I received a telegram from the Foreign Office. It was rather vague in its contents," he retrieved the telegram from his breast pocket and handed it to Watson while continuing his experiment.

_Must see you over Naval Treaty. Coming within the hour.  
–MH_  
---  
  
 

"Who is MH?" Watson asked, re-reading the very short message indeed.

"My brother, Mycroft," Holmes replied absently as he poured a foul smelling purple liquid into a fizzing beaker.

Watson's jaw dropped. "Your _brother_? You never told me you had a brother!"

"Didn't I?" Holmes shrugged. "Well, it is no consequence. Whatever the problem that Mycroft is having, it will surely be worth the bother of being in his presence."

"Is he your junior, then?" Watson asked. It would be natural that such animosity would be aimed towards a much younger sibling.

Holmes shook his head. "Seven years my senior."

"And works in the Foreign Office?"

"Yes..." Holmes tilted his head. "For today." The liquid that Holmes was mixing turned an ugly brown color. He frowned at it and placed the beaker back in the rack. With a sigh, he turned away from the work. It looked as though his experiment was done for the time being. He turned his full attention to Watson. "He has his hand in a great many things, Watson. He naturally has a great capacity for facts and figures, so much that his abilities outstrip my own gifts."

Watson raised an eyebrow. "I thought that you disliked modesty."

"It is not modesty that I speak. It is simply the truth," Holmes offered as he got up from his chemical table. Strolling over to the fireplace, Holmes removed the dagger from the mantle place and added Mycroft's telegram to the stack of papers before stabbing the pile once more with the dagger, grinning as he did so. "When he arrives, you will see," he said. Easing himself into his normal chair, Holmes picked up the afternoon's newspaper that was lying beside the chair on the floor.

It was not long before there was a quick knock on the door, and a man called through the door, "Sherlock?"

"Mycroft!" Holmes called back.

The door swung open. Mycroft Holmes was nothing at all what Watson had imagined. He thought the eldest Holmes would be a copy of the detective, but with, perhaps, a sprinkling of grey in his hair. Mycroft Holmes actually was, unfathomably, taller than his younger brother, with the bulk of three or four Sherlocks. While the detective's hands were composed of graceful, long fingers, that Watson more often than not found himself mesmerized by, Mycroft had gigantic flipper hands that lacked any grace that his brother's possessed. He looked far older than seven years Holmes' senior, with a great many wrinkles etched into his face. While the features were more plump, and aged, Watson could recognize the hereditary features between the brothers. Something about the nose and chin. Mycroft's eyes were a light grey, like Holmes', but not nearly as haunted as his brother's.

Mycroft Holmes entered the room with a very put-upon sigh. He did not introduce himself, but instead walked straight over to the chair opposite of Holmes', which had become Watson's normal seat, and planted himself with yet another loud heaving sigh. The brothers sat in silence, staring at each other.

When it looked as though neither Holmes' were going to speak, Watson, who was still standing near their guest, cleared his throat. He offered his hand to the elder Holmes. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft looked at the doctor as if he had only just realized that he and his brother were not alone in the room. "Gracious! Sherlock, why did you not wire me you had company? I would hardly wish to interrupt an interview with one of your _clients_."

"The fact that you sent a telegram was an indication that it would not matter whether I had a case or not," Holmes seethed. "You should keep better informed. He is my new associate."

Mycroft let out a soft chortle. "I see. And what is the name of your brave new army doctor?"

"How did–"

"John H. Watson," Holmes announced, looking annoyed. "I told you doctor, that Mycroft's gifts outstrip my own. But while I rely on my observational skills for to make my living, Mycroft's is a merest hobby."

Watson laughed nervously. "This is the first time I have seen deductive powers to be hereditary."

"Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms." Mycroft replied, with a patronizing smile. "While our ancestors were country squires, our grandmother was the sister of the French artist Vernet." Mycroft looked to his younger brother and sighed. "I do wonder if Sherlock's deductive skills are only mimicry of my own, while his true mastery is his violin. Nevertheless, it is from her gifts, that we have thus inherited the ability to become masters of our chosen professions. Isn't that right, _brother mine_?"

The only reply the detective gave was a pained smile.

"If that is true, not to be inconsiderate, but how have I not heard of you, Mr. Holmes?"

A devious look came upon Holmes face as Watson spoke. "Mycroft lacks the energy," he snidely replied. "If he were able to conduct detective work from an armchair, he would be the greatest detective in the world."

"I abhor leg-work, if that is what you are trying to explain. Not all of us can make the _sacrifices_ you do have, Sherlock. And look what it has made you become! The heartless detective with nothing left to lose." Mycroft glanced at Watson. "Or perhaps-"

"You _did_ come here about a case?" Holmes snapped. "While I do love our chats, _brother mine_ , I am quite busy just at the moment."

Mycroft frowned. "Yes, the Naval Treaty. A very _annoying_ business. It seems Lord Holdhurst took his nephew into confidence about a secret treaty between England and Italy– of which, I regret to say, some rumors have already got into the public press."

"What sort of treaty?" Holmes asked as Watson exclaimed simultaneously, "Good lord, Percy!"

Both Holmes brothers turned to the doctor. "How did you know the name of the nephew, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft asked, looking extremely surprised.

"Well I-" Watson hesitated for a moment as a blush came over his cheeks. "Percy Phelps and I were at school together. We're the same age, but he was ahead of me by two classes." It was the truth, Watson assured himself. Just not the complete truth. There was nothing about his relationship with Percy that would help the investigation, and really, it was so long ago. Percy probably did not even remember him...

"Really?" Mycroft's mouth formed a small smile as he looked to his younger brother. It gave Watson the impression that he was being patronized by the elder Holmes brother once again, so he looked to the younger. As for Sherlock Holmes, he looked both interested and upset at this revelation, although Watson could hardly understand why.

"I must confess," Watson added. "That he had passed out of my mind. We were not the closest of acquaintances." Now that _was_ a lie, Watson thought. But a very small one, and really it was everyone's best interest not to reveal the true nature of their _friendship_...

Holmes closed his eyes and let out a long breath. "What did this treaty contain, _brother mine_?"

"It spoke of an alliance between the two great countries." Mycroft replied. Folding his flipper hands in front of him, he added. "It is of enormous importance that nothing further should leak out. The French or the Russian embassy would pay an immense sum to learn the contents of these papers."

Raising an eyebrow, Holmes asked, "Is it missing?"

With another loud sigh, Mycroft said, "The treaty has been stolen under very peculiar circumstances. Phelps was given a commission from Lord Holdhurst to copy the treaty. While Phelps was out of the room, but still in the Foreign Office building, it was stolen. It's been missing for nine weeks now, but the matter was only brought to my attention this morning. It seems that Lord Holdhurst was trying to keep a cap on the situation to avoid putting further pressure on his nephew. Phelps, soon after the treaty was discovered missing, fell into a brain fever and has been inflicted with it all this time."

Watson sighed inwardly as Mycroft explained Percy's situation. In his youth, Percy had always been a nervous sort, constantly growing sick over his own anxieties. The contracting of a brain fever after such terrible event was not a complete surprise to Watson.

"How many people knew of the treaty?" Holmes asked.

"Not many knew the full details of the treaty, though its existence is known."

"It has been nine weeks and nothing has happened?"

Mycroft grunted. "If the treaty had been sent to France or Russia, I guarantee you, we would have heard about it in Whitehall." With a great _heave_ Mycroft hoisted himself out of the chair. "Here is Phelps' address," Mycroft handed Holmes a small piece of paper. "He is expecting you tomorrow morning."

Looking up at his brother, Sherlock did not move to take the piece of paper. "I have not said I would take the case."

"You _will_ take the case, Sherlock," Mycroft shook the piece of paper insistently. "It is a matter of national security. In all of your career you have never had so great a chance of serving your country."

"The treaty is as good as gone. If I had been consulted right after the event occurred–" Holmes sat back in his chair. "But you know there is no hope on retrieving the treaty. And you also know _serving my country_ would not inspire me to take this case..." The detective slowly stood up and looked his brother in the eyes. "Why are you really here?"

"Surely, your _fantastic_ deductive powers would have figured it out by now," Mycroft teased. "As I said before, there were very few who knew the true contents of this document. And Lord Holdhurst swears he told no one of the commission he gave Phelps. So who could possibly know that the poor boy had the treaty, much less have the time to prepare to steal it from impossible circumstances?"

Holmes' eyes grew wide, but he did not say anything. Instead, he took the piece of paper containing Percy Phelps' address from Mycroft's hand. The elder Holmes smiled triumphantly. "Very good. I know you will be able to bring a swift close to this case."

"You'll make arrangements for us to speak to Lord Holdhurst?" Holmes asked.

Shrugging, Mycroft replied, "If you think it will be necessary. However, I suggest you visit Phelps first. He may save you the tediousness of interviewing Lord Holdhurst." Mycroft turned his attention to the doctor and nodded. "Very nice meeting you, Dr. Watson."

Watson stood up, careful of his aching leg. "It was nice to meet you as well, Mr. Holmes. Thank you for stopping by."

As his elder brother left the rooms, Holmes walked to the fireplace, tightly holding Phelps' address in his right hand. The two Holmes brothers did not exchange farewells. Watson, however, escorted the elder Holmes to the door. As Mycroft opened the front door downstairs, he turned to the doctor and said, "I know it must be difficult for you, living with Sherlock. You, with such a strong, caring heart, living with the walking clockwork machine." He let out a deep sigh. "I hope my brother will not trouble you too much, doctor."

"He's no trouble at all," Watson replied with a polite smile. Despite it being far from the truth, this was no time to unburden himself.

Mycroft simply smiled. "For now he isn't."

 

 

For reasons that were not at all clear to Watson, Holmes said nothing after Mycroft's departure. Watson assumed that this was only yet another one of Holmes' black moods, and this too would pass before long, so he did just as he would have every night; he enjoyed a quiet supper in the sitting room while Holmes poured over his chemistry table only a few feet away. There were times that Holmes would glance in Watson's direction, and stare at him for a few moments, and then turn back to the experiment before him. He did this thorough the evening. When Watson questioned him about it, Holmes ignored him.

The next morning, there was still nothing but strained silence between the two of them. This made the train ride to Woking exceptionally awkward, and Watson was beginning to question why he had bothered coming along at all if Holmes was going to pretend that he was not there. After all, if he did not go, then there would be no risk of Percy recognizing him and thus putting the two of them in a predicament. Holmes would be far too observant, and would most likely draw the correct conclusion.

But halfway to their destination, Holmes looked up at the doctor. "Your relationship with Percy Phelps..." The sound of Holmes' voice made Watson jump in surprise. "It was not quite what you described."

Watson's eyes grew incredibly wide. "How could you possibly know?"

"I told you Watson," Holmes said, looking out of the window to his right. "I know when you are lying."

"Holmes–" Watson said with a nervous laugh.

"Omission is also a type of lying," Holmes said flatly. "I know there is something you did not share last night."

" _Holmes–_ " The tone of Watson's voice turned to pleading.

"Not to worry, old boy. I shall sniff it out once we arrive in Woking."

Watson was quite sure that was the last thing he wanted to happen. He could take the chance to tell Holmes directly what exactly had been between himself and Percy, as he did not think Holmes to be judgmental. However, it was a dangerous risk he would be taking, and dragging Percy along with him. And for what? Watson had not spoken to Percy since he went off to Cambridge, nor had they exchanged any letters. With what the war had wrought on Watson's both external and internal appearance, it was highly doubtful there would be a spark of recollection on Percy's part, as he was always a bit narcissistic in his ways.

Holmes said nothing else for the remainder of the train ride.

 

Percy's estate, Briarbrae, was a few minutes walk from the station. It had snowed, but only just enough to make walking difficult for Watson. After it became obvious such a short walk may turn into a long one, Holmes offered his arm to Watson. The doctor hesitated for a moment before Holmes snapped, "It's not as if I will eat you, Watson!" His face flushing, Watson grabbed Holmes' arm and on they went to Briarbrae.

As they approached the house, Holmes let go of Watson's arm and moved to walk behind the doctor. They were greeted at the door by Joseph Harrison, who introduced himself as the elder bother of Percy's fiancée, Annie. This bit of news startled Watson, but he attempted to not react to it in anyway, thus revealing himself further to Holmes.

Joseph escorted the two to the make-shift sick room, where Percy and Annie were waiting, Percy grasping Annie's hand tightly in his own. Percy's already extremely pale color, which Watson assumed was because of the brain fever and not some other terrible condition Mycroft Holmes had not mentioned, contrasted heavily against his deep maroon robe. He looked as a man about to fall to pieces. "Here are the two gentlemen you have been waiting for from Whitehall, Percy. This is Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson," Joseph said. "This is Mr. Percy Phelps and my sister, Miss Anne Harrison."

At the mere mention of Watson's name, Percy's eyes lit up for the briefest of moments and the dreary color of Percy's face lightened. "' _Is't possible!_ ' My dear, Watson!" he exclaimed, laughing. "You were the last man I would have expected to see in my sick room. I should never have known you under that moustache, and I daresay you would not be prepared to swear to me!" Percy grabbed Watson's hand and shook it furiously. "How are you, _my dear_ chap?"

"Hello, Percy," was Watson's far more reserved response. He glanced over to Holmes, who looked on the scene with great interest. "Holmes here," Watson gestured to Holmes, "Is a consulting detective. He has come to investigate the stolen Naval Treaty. I am his associate."

"Ah yes," Percy offered his hand to Holmes, who looked at it and simply walked past it to an uninhabited chair. Watson turned to the detective, cheeks burning in embarrassment. Perhaps Holmes did not mind being so callous to a client, but for Watson it was impolite to act in such a way. Percy, however, did not take much offense to the detective's actions, and continued, his attention lingering towards Watson. "My uncle wrote that Whitehall would be sending someone to look into the matter."

Watson nodded. "Whitehall shared the situation with us."

"Although they were rather short on details," Holmes interjected, insinuating that he wished Percy better inform them of what truly happened. As Watson opened his mouth to admonish the detective, Holmes smiled curtly at him and motioned for Watson to sit down.

"But I don't know how much good it will do you." Percy said to Watson as the doctor sat down. "The police have been unable to help, as the thief left no clues behind."

"That would be for me to decide," Holmes replied, his tone a bit snappish.

Now it was Annie's turn to open her mouth to say something to Holmes, but Percy silenced her by squeezing her hand. "Very well, Mr. Holmes," Percy said calmly, "I shall tell you everything I know..."

It was a rather complicated affair, filled with the intrigue that Holmes always preferred in his cases. A daring thief that not only vanished along with a document that no one but the inner circle of the Foreign Office was even aware of, but who also rang the alert to draw attention to himself or herself. Only two exits, one that no one but an innocent small girl left, the other having to pass by where Percy Phelps was.

Normally, this would be the precise case to capture Holmes' interest, but as Percy was giving his full account, Watson looked over to the detective to see that he looked bored, listless. Even when Percy finished, Holmes seemed disinterested in asking many questions. Instead, after two questions he got out of his chair and walked over to the window and stared out at the snow. "It is a pity we could not be here in the spring," he observed. "Your garden looks most impressive Mr. Phelps."

"Yes, it is..." Percy replied. Both Percy and Miss Harrison looked confused by this change of topic. They looked to Watson, who could only shake his head.

"Are these all rose bushes?" the detective asked, still staring out the window.

Percy looked even more confused. "I believe so."

"What a thing a rose is..." Holmes murmured, leaning up against the shudders, still staring out at the snow. "Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are all really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But the roses are extra. Their smell and color are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers."

Holmes stared out of the window for some minutes, watching the snow before Miss Harrison walked over to him. "Do you see any prospect of solving this mystery, Mr. Holmes?" she asked with some terseness to her voice.

He blinked at her for a moment, seeming lost. Then a small smile came to his face. "Yes, the case. I do not deny that the case is a very abstruse and complicated one, but I can promise you that I will look into the matter and let you know any points which may strike me."

Miss Harrison was quickly losing patience. "Do you see any clue?"

Holmes shrugged nonchalantly. "I must test them before I can pronounce upon their value."

Now her eyes narrowed. "You suspect someone?"

"I suspect..." Holmes looked over to Watson for a moment. And then smiled briefly before turning back to Miss Harrison. "...Myself."

"What?" Miss Harrison's cheeks flushed red with anger.

"Of coming to conclusions too rapidly," the detective finished, smiling genteelly at Miss Harrison.

Miss Harrison took two steps closer to Holmes, her stare turning colder. "Then go to London and test your conclusions."

"Your advice is very excellent, Miss Harrison," said Holmes, turning to Watson and smiling. "I think, Watson, we cannot do better." He walked over to the door to the sick room and pointed to Percy. "Do not allow yourself to indulge in false hopes, Mr. Phelps. The affair is a very tangled one, and I am not a magician. Come Watson."

Watson shook Percy's hand once more. "I shall be in a fever until I see you again!" Percy said, looking into Watson's eyes.

It was at that comment that Holmes made an annoyed face. "We shall come out by the same train tomorrow, though it's more than likely that my report will be a negative one." And with that he stomped out of the room.

Watson followed Holmes after he gave his most sincere apologies both to Miss Harrison and Percy. He assured them that this was how Holmes usually acted, but he was very good in his profession. They looked disbelieving, not that Watson could fault them.

 

Holmes waited until Watson made himself comfortable on the opposite side of the train compartment before saying anything again. "You could have confided in me, you know," he said as Watson picked up the paper he had bought to read on the ride home.

Outside the train whistle blew the last warning call. Watson slowly lowered the paper, staring at Holmes. He knew playing innocent would only aggravate Holmes. At least the compartment door was shut, so this could be a private conversation. "I did not think it any of your business."

"When you were _intimate_ with a potential client, it becomes my business."

A few loud bangs outside and one last train whistle sounded as the wheels of the train began to move. Watson stretched the paper in his hands with a great show of force. "It was a long time ago, Holmes," he retorted, trying to focus on the newsprint instead of the detective's eyes, still staring him down. "And it is a personal matter that I did not wish to share."

Holmes made an amused sound as he looked out the window to watch the scenery begin to slowly move. After a few moments, the detective added. "He still cares for you." He paused, glancing over to observe Watson's reaction. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Watson concentrated on his paper.

Turning his head back to look at his companion, Holmes asked, "And you plan to ignore his attentions?"

Finally, Watson put down the paper with a loud sigh. "Why should it matter to you what I do? As I said, it has no effect on this case."

"On the contrary, it may be the essence of the case. It is crucial to not upset anything in that household at the moment. Particularly Miss Harrison."

Watson sincerely doubted that was true at all, as he was quite accustomed to Holmes' flare for the dramatic and his sometimes exasperated circumstances. "And why is that? She already admitted to knowing nothing of the treaty until after the incident."

Holmes turned his head towards the window again. "I cannot be certain, and I do not wish to speculate until I have all the facts. However, a woman with a character as strong as hers... it is hard to discount her in being one of the threads in the robbery. Your _former_ relationship with Mr. Phelps has now been added to the puzzle as well. It would have been better if you told me before we had set out for his estate."

Watson felt his cheeks grow warm. "It is not a subject talked about in the open, Holmes– but I am happy that you can speak of it so freely."

"There is no need for sarcasm, doctor. I simply wanted to know if you were planning to return his attentions." Holmes replied, pulling a cigarette out of his jacket. He took his time lighting it. "If you are, then I need to take into account how discreet you two plan to be, and how Miss Harrison's relationship with Mr. Phelps will change, and how meeting his old school flame will affect-"

" _Holmes._ "

"So as you can see, your relationship whether it continues or not is very important to how I approach-"

" _Enough._ " Watson glared across the compartment at Holmes. "My time with Percy is over. There are things expected of a man in his standing, and marrying an exceptional woman like Miss Harrison is one of them." Holmes opened his mouth to say something, but Watson continued on, "Even if he approached me with such intentions, I would turn him down for his own sake." At this Holmes smiled slyly. Watson's anger surged further. "What the devil are you smiling at?"

"And here you say that you cannot read minds," Holmes replied, continuing to smile. "Yet you knew what I was intending to ask next!"

With a sigh, Watson said, "I am beginning to understand your tendency to pluck at a subject until it is as bare as a roast goose, that is all."

"Well that was certainly an impressive deduction! How far you have come in such little time."

Clearly annoyed, the doctor spoke through clenched teeth. "I am trying to give you what you want because I am uncomfortable with the subject." Watson picked up the paper at his side and once more began to read. He could feel Holmes' eyes staring at him intently, but to say anything about it would start the conversation once more.

The sound of a gentle _clack-clack_ of the train tracks filled the compartment as the train made its way back to London. A ring of smoke from the cigarette formed around Holmes' head.

Holmes broke the silence, "There is no need to be uncomfortable with your nature."

Watson let out a slow breath. Speaking softly and very quickly, he said. "As bohemian as _your_ attitude may be, the law takes a somewhat more conservative view. I do not wish to end up in the dock breaking rocks for two years, so can we _please desist_ with this conversation?"

Holmes said nothing more until they reached Waterloo station.


	5. In Which Holmes Worries Everyone

By the time the train reached the station, Watson was walking with a clear limp. The cold was taking it's toll on the good doctor's war wound. Baring that, Holmes decided–unilaterally it must be said–that Watson would return to their rooms whilst Holmes made inquires with the police and Lord Holdhurst. When Watson protested this decision, as he wanted very much to meet Lord Holdhurst. He tried to convince Holmes that the limp was nothing, nearly falling face first on the wooden station floor as he did so. Holmes would allow no further protest, and found a cab to take Watson straight home.

When he entered their rooms, Watson's foul mood was taken out on the door as he slammed it closed. How frustrating Holmes was sometimes! But his distress quickly vanished when he laid eyes on the desk drawer. It was left cracked open. Now was his chance! At least for a few days, he could rid Holmes of the awful drugs. He walked over to the desk as quickly as his limp would allow, and pulled the drawer open. The Morocco case was nowhere to be found. _Of course he took it with him_. The only things in the drawer were a checkbook and a leather photograph holder that was folded closed. Hesitating for only a moment, Watson picked up the photograph holder.

Watson respected Holmes' privacy, he truly did. If one were to ask him later, Watson would not be sure whether his actions were due to a mere curiosity of seeing the portrait that Holmes locked away, or whether it was an act of vengeance after Holmes had mercilessly plucked at the mystery of Watson's relationship with Percy. As he opened it, he saw a picture of a strikingly beautiful woman in an elaborate evening dress. The photograph was set-up in a classic beauty pose, however the woman had very non-traditional smug grin on her lips. She was also holding by her side some kind of air gun. It was a strange photograph indeed! Enclosed as well was a folded letter:

>   
>  _My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes_   
> 

>   
>  _You really did it very well. Until after the alarm of fire, I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had warned you months ago, but you would not heed. Yet, with all this, I have revealed the secret._   
> 

>   
>  _We both know the best resource for me is flight, when pursued by so formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you call to-morrow. As to the item, you may rest in peace. I keep it only to safeguard my love and to preserve a weapon against the one I hide it from._   
> 

>   
>  _And as always I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,  
>  Very truly yours, Irene Norton, née Adler_   
> 

Watson felt his stomach twist slightly at the _Very truly yours_ , although he was not entirely sure why. Adler was a name Watson had seen writ down several times on Holmes' notes, though he did find it rather odd that the detective never mentioned her. Now he was even more curious as to why.

He was so absorbed in the revelation that Holmes had an admirer, that he did not hear Mrs. Hudson enter the room with the afternoon post and newspapers. He did, however, hear her very scandalized, "Doctor Watson! What are you doing!"

Watson nearly dropped the photograph and the letter in surprise. "M-Mrs. Hudson!" He quickly folded the letter back into place and shut the photograph holder. "I was just trying- Holmes' Morocco case-"

She quickly placed the post and newspapers on the table before walking over to Watson huffing disapprovingly. "That is Mr. Holmes' private property," she said, taking the photograph out of his hands. Although for a moment, Watson thought that he saw a look of distress on her face? "I know he can be a bit trying..." the housekeeper continued.

Embarrassed, Watson's cheeks flushed. "I was trying to hide Holmes' horrid drugs, that is all, I promise you."

She let out another _huff_. "He would only buy more, doctor. I stopped trying to hide his narcotics from him ages ago." She put the photo back into the desk and closed the drawer forcefully. She then gave the doctor another stern look before walking back over to the dining table and moving the newspapers to Holmes' chair. She then began to fluff the pillows on the settee.

As she did so Watson asked, "Do you know her? The woman in the photograph?"

Mrs. Hudson gave another put upon sigh. "If I tell you, will you put it all out of your mind?" Watson nodded. "Mr. Holmes calls her _The Woman_ and that she and Mr. Holmes had some sort of falling out in years past, that is all I know of her." She shook her head. "He doesn't talk of her much, except when he is in a mood. I would rather he not come home to find you have seen it. The last time she came up in any kind of conversation in the rooms, Mr. Holmes attacked my walls with his revolver! Can I have your word you will not mention the photo?"

"Of course," Watson replied, cheeks going a bit pink again. He felt like a schoolboy being chastised by the headmaster.

"Good," she said with a nod. Mrs. Hudson then walked back over to the door. She paused as she was passing through the threshold. "Oh, doctor– you made me forget what I was going to tell you! There was something for you in the post."

"Thank you," Watson replied, walking over to the dinning table. There were three letters addressed to Holmes, which were cases no doubt, and one for Watson addressed in a strangle scrawl and written in purple ink. There was no return address. Watson opened it hesitantly. Although he had been living at 221B for a few months, there were still few who knew where his new quarters were.

Inside the envelope was a half sheet of paper. The message was typed, not hand written as the envelope had been, and read:

  


_Go and catch a falling star,  
Get with child a mandrake root,  
Tell me where all past years are,  
Or who cleft the devil's foot,  
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,  
Or to keep off envy's stinging,  
                And find  
                What wind  
Serves to advance an honest mind._  
---  
  
_What a strange message!_ Watson read over the text three times before folding the paper back up and putting it in his breast pocket. Who would send him such a thing and why? The poem sounded familiar, but he couldn't place the author. He also remembered there being more to it. Watson spent the remaining afternoon searching Holmes' library for the full text. Perhaps it would be a clue to whoever wrote him this mysterious letter.

 

After several hours of searching, he decided to take a break and read the papers for a little while. _The Times_ had the same front page story as they had for the entire week: Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle was still missing. Sadly, Holmes still had no intentions of taking the case on.

Holmes did not return until the evening. After giving Mrs. Hudson a curt order for tea to be brought up, he entered the sitting room with a dusting of snow on his features.

"Welcome back, Holmes." Watson had decided that he would keep the letter to himself for now, if only to keep Holmes on Percy's case. Finding the treaty was of national importance and it was in Holmes' nature to easily be distracted by the slightest of oddities.

"Evening, Watson," Holmes replied as he took off his jacket and hat. He hung them on the rack beside the door. It was only then that Watson noticed that Holmes had an additional hat with him. It was a large, worn, bowler hat that was not Holmes' as it was a good few years out of fashion and Holmes, from what Watson had observed during his time at Baker Street, was always the pinnacle of the current men's fashions. Holmes brought the hat with him as he sat on the settee, placing the hat on the arm of it.

Raising an eyebrow, Watson asked, "What have you there, Holmes?"

"A case from my friend Commissionaire Peterson," Holmes remarked, staring at the hat intently.

"You are already on a case, remember? We need to find the Naval Treaty as soon as possible."

"Yes, that is true." The detective stretched his arms languidly over his head. "However, Peterson approached me while I was making inquires at Scotland Yard pertaining to the Phelps case. Peterson's little mystery seemed much more interesting."

"More interesting–" Watson bit his lower lip to stop him from giving Holmes a lecture. The last thing he wanted was another conversation about Percy and their former relationship. Letting out a long breath, Watson said, "What did you find out from Scotland Yard?"

"Hmm?" Holmes asked, still staring at the hat.

"About the Naval Treaty," Watson supplied, trying not to grit his teeth.

Finally, Holmes turned his attention to Watson and said. "Unsurprisingly Scotland Yard had nothing to add to Mr. Phelps' story." As Holmes continued, his attentions slowly turned back to the hat before him. "Lord Holdhurst swears that he did not tell anyone of his nephew's commission, and he suspects that Mr. Phelps is the one who stole the treaty and has been pretending to have a brain storm to cover his tracks."

"Impossible!" If there was one thing that Percy certainly wasn't, it was a liar. Watson knew Percy's nerves would tear him apart with worry over being discovered. No, there had to be a different explanation. When he looked to Holmes for a reply confirming Percy's innocence, he found that the detective once again was lost within the mystery of the tatty bowler hat. With a sigh, he abandoned the subject for now. After all, they would be visiting Woking again in the morning and Holmes would clearly see Percy's innocence then. "I suppose that, homely as it looks, you are about to tell me that this thing has some deadly story linked on to it– that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the punishment of some horrible crime."

Holmes chuckled. "No, no. No crime. Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles."

Watson struggled to see how a hat could be more interesting than the safety of the country, but this was Sherlock Holmes, and he did tend to observe more than the average man, so perhaps Watson was missing something. "So, this is Peterson's hat?"

"No, he found it. Along with a goose."

"A goose?" Watson replied incredulously.

"Yes." Holmes replied absently as he continued to stare at the hat. "It was addressed to a Mrs. Henry Baker."

"The hat and goose belong to a Mr. Baker then," Watson reasoned. After a moment he said, "But Holmes, there must be hundreds of Henry Bakers in London alone!"

"Precisely why it is a mystery, Watson!" Holmes smiled, his marble-like eyes shinning in the firelight.

"Where is the goose now?"

"Surely Peterson's family has eaten it by now."

"Holmes!"

"It would have been no good to anyone if it had not been cooked soon," Holmes defended, frowning at the doctor. "But Peterson was quite adamant about replacing the goose for Mr. Henry Baker, thus I have to deduce his identity from the clues given to me by his hat."

"From his hat?"

"Precisely."

"But you are joking! What can you gather from this old battered felt?"

Holmes stared at the hat for a few seconds as the fireplace crackled a few times. Then, with a quick swoop, Holmes took the hat into his hands and said, "That the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence. Probably drink. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him. Those are the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. It is also, by the way, extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his house."

It was hardly Watson's prerogative to encourage this nonsense further, but he was unable to stop himself from blurting "My dear Holmes!" At this, Holmes' eyes snapped back onto Watson. For a moment there was silence, save for the crackling of the fire. Watson cleared his throat and added, "I mean to say, I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was intellectual?"

Holmes placed the hat upon his head with great flourish. It settled right over his forehead and on the bridge of his nose. It was quite a comical sight seeing the unflappable Sherlock Holmes look so ridiculous with an oversized shabby hat on his head. Watson did his best to fight the laugh bubbling in his chest. "It is a question of cubic capacity," Holmes explained, still completely serious. "A man with so large a brain must have something in it!"

At that Watson could no longer hold in his laughter. Holmes took off the hat and looked at Watson curiously. As he opened his mouth to reply, the sitting room door slammed open. Both men turned their heads to see a small man, in a commissionaire uniform. Watson assumed the stranger was Peterson. He had flushed cheeks and was breathing hard from what could only been caused by excessive running.

Holmes stood up from the settee. "Peterson! What on earth-"

"Mr. Holmes, sir! It's the goose! The goose!"

"What about it man!" Holmes replied, testily. "Has it come back to life and flapped away out the window?"

"No sir, no sir," Peterson said, quickly making his way towards Holmes. It was then that Watson noticed that Peterson's right hand was balled into a tight fist. When he was in front of Holmes, he brought the balled fist forward. "See what my wife found in its crop!" Holmes looked curiously at the commissionaire as he slowly opened his palm to reveal a small, vividly blue stone. Watson blinked as he looked at the stone. The stone covered half of Peterson's palm and looked like it was carved somewhat in the likeness of a human heart.

Holmes' eyes widened. "Peterson! This is treasure trove indeed!" Hovering his fingers over the stone, the detective closed his eyes, a certain elation in his expression that Watson had not seen before. There his hand was suspended above the stone for a moment, as if he were anticipating something. Then, his eyes opened, and the detective gave a small sigh.

Peterson seemed just as perplexed as Watson. "Mr. Holmes?"

With a small shake of his head, the detective took the stone in his fingers and held it to the light. "I suppose you know what you have got here?"

"It's a bonny thing," Watson said, leaning over Holmes' shoulder to look at the stone as well. The detective glanced at Watson, blinking curiously. He maneuvered the jewel away from the doctor. With a nervous laugh, Watson took a step away and added, "Just see how it glints and sparkles."

Still confused, Peterson supplied, "I know it's a precious stone, no doubt. A diamond, sir? It cuts into glass as though it were putty."

"It's more than a precious stone," Holmes replied. He placed the stone back in Peterson's hand, now looking completely disinterested in the thing. "It is _the_ precious stone that the entire city of London is on the lookout for."

Watson gasped. "Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle! Holmes!"

"Precisely so. I ought to know its size, seeing that Watson has shoved each newspaper containing an advertisement about it under my nose commanding my attention." Watson scoffed. But the detective continued, "It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward offered of a thousand pounds is certainly not within a twentieth part of the market price."

"A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The commissionaire said faintly as he ran his hand through his hair.

"That is the reward as it has been advertised," Holmes replied looking more bored than ever. "Although I have reason to know that there are other considerations in the background which would induce the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover it."

Watson looked wryly at the detective. "You had said that the Countess' butler committed the theft, Holmes. Clearly, that is not the case. Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which you deduced so expertly."

"Why could it not still be the Countess' butler?" Holmes demanded, turning an icy marble-grey glare towards the doctor. "After all, what would be the best coarse of action for a thief so close to the case do? Get rid of the evidence! It seems that thief is not as clever as he thought, and misplaced the goose he entrusted with the stone."

Chuckling, Watson sat back down on the settee. "Even for you, that is far fetched, Holmes. It is more likely that your mysterious Mr. Henry Baker-"

"Mr. Henry Baker has had nothing to do with the Hotel Cosmopolitan, save that perhaps he has walked by in the morning to his work." Holmes said icily. "I think you will find, _Doctor_ , that the Countess would have guarded her treasure well and not have been as careless as you seem to assumed she had been." Holmes turned back to Peterson, "And you Peterson? I assume you would still like to return the favor of the goose to Mr. Henry Baker, and thank him for this wild turn of events."

Peterson flushed. "Oh more than that sir! Why! What have the wife and I need for a thousand pounds? I would split the reward with him!"

A small smile formed on Holmes' lips. "There's a good man. Here," he walked over to the desk and took out a sheet of paper. As he wrote, he said aloud: "Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening-" Holmes turned to the commissionaire, handing him the pencil he was writing with, "Fill in your address here, Peterson, and then take this advertisement to every newspaper you can think of right away."

"An advertisement? But will Mr. Baker see it?" Watson asked.

Still seeming rather annoyed with Watson, Holmes retorted, "Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man, the loss was a heavy one. And any those who know him are sure to draw his attention to it." Holmes turned his attention back to Peterson. "Make sure you take the hat as well, as I am sure Mr. Baker is missing it. After you drop the advertisement off at the printers, take the Blue Carbuncle back to the Countess. I think you will find that she will be most relieved to have it returned to her," he said. Holmes rolled the stone in his hand for a moment, staring at it. After a long moment, he gently placed the stone back in Peterson's hand.

Watson interjected, "Holmes-!"

But Holmes ignored the doctor's protests and waved the commissionaire on. "Off you go, Peterson. You don't want to miss the printing deadline."

Uncertain, the commissionaire looked back and forth from Watson, who seemed to be holding back a great deal of anger, and Holmes, who looked as though he no longer cared about the matter. With a tip of his hat to the detective, Peterson scrambled out of the sitting room, grabbing the shabby felt hat as he left. When the door closed, Watson turned on Holmes. "Although your mind may skip from one subject to the next, you simply cannot do so in the corporal world. Especially in the matter of criminal cases! If you know without doubt that the butler-"

"Whereas I _do_ know that the butler committed the theft, Scotland Yard does have a tendency to get a bit sore when you point out obvious lines of investigation that they have overlooked. And why should the butler admit to the crime, when the stone has been returned? No, no," Holmes shook his head and sat back on the settee, closer to the fire. "It is not worth the headache of dealing with Scotland Yard twice in one day."

"Then surely he will attempt to steal the stone again!" Watson argued.

Holmes scoffed. Walking over to the fireplace, he made a show of grabbing the tobacco from the slipper and stuffing it into the black pipe. "Seeing how badly his first attempt went, I am sure he is loathe to try it again. For who knows, he might leave an obvious enough trail for Scotland Yard to see!" He let out a sharp laugh as he lit his pipe and sat back on the settee.

It seemed to Watson that Holmes was acting peculiar, or at least more peculiar than usual. Holmes was overplaying his dramatics more than usual since he had held the stone. Even without Watson possessing the cunning deductive powers that Holmes had, he could see that something was amiss. The doctor stared at his companion for a few moments before sitting down next to him on the settee. "At first you seemed to think that the Blue Carbuncle was something else."

"Did I?" Holmes asked, the pipe still in his mouth. His focus was now on watching the flames in the fireplace, and did not seem as if he were paying much attention to what Watson was saying. A small ringlet of smoke floated above his head.

"Yes, you did. But I suppose it was because of its odd shaped cut. At first glance, it looked like a small human heart!"

Holmes closed his eyes. "Yes it did," he said quietly.

Watson was taken aback by the detective's tone. It was the first time in their acquaintance that he had heard Holmes sound so disheartened. He leaned towards the detective, placing a hand on his shoulder. "What did you think it was?"

Holmes let out a long breath. "It's getting late. And we are to visit Woking and your friend Mr. Phelps in the morning, so we should both retire for the evening. Our train leaves quite early."

"Holmes?" Watson implored.

"It simply reminded me of something of past years, that is all."

"Past years?" Watson repeated, thinking back to the note he received earlier. _Tell me where all past years are..._ Could that letter– But no, it was mere coincidence!

However, Watson's visible hesitance could not go without drawing the detective's attention. "Watson?" he said. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine Holmes," Watson said, shaking his head. "Good night."

After a few moments of staring at the doctor, Holmes nodded and went into his room, closing the door behind him.

 

 

The day before Christmas Eve was a bleak winter morning. The grey sky loomed over the city with clouds that looked as if they were trying to touch the earth. Snow was imminent, but did not begin to fall during their train ride to Woking. Watson was thankful, as he wanted to be more help than a hindrance to Holmes during their second visit to Percy's estate, if only to deflect Holmes' clear annoyance towards Percy, or perhaps just the case in general. Holmes' black mood had not lessened from the previous day, although Watson was thankful that it had not worsened as the disappointment over the case of the Blue Carbuncle, or rather the lack of case as it were. The outcome had the potential of dragging Holmes into another one of his black periods. But that was not the case, yet.

On the train ride there, Watson mulled over the note he had received the previous day. He still had yet to remember where he had heard the poem before, and decided to engage Holmes' intellect on the matter as a distraction. "I say Holmes, I have a very strange question for you. I have a bit of poetry stuck in my mind, but I haven't the foggiest where I have read it before."

Holmes, who had been biding his time watching the small cottages fly by through the window, turned to face Watson. "I must confess my knowledge of literature is not the strongest. I would think you would be better at it than I, considering your literary hobbies."

"Even so," Watson leaned back in his seat and looked at the cloth draped ceiling of their train car. "I recall studying it as a boy, but I can't remember how the rest goes..."

"Let's hear it then," Holmes shrugged.

"Go and catch a falling star and get with child a mandrake root...? Or something like that." He laughed nervously, as he was wont to do in situations where he did not want to seem ignorant in front of Holmes. In truth, Watson had memorized the entire portion of the poem sent to him. But saying it verbatim would pique Holmes' interest, and Watson did not want the detective to lose any more focus on Percy's case.

Holmes closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them back up the cloud blanketed light shone into the car, giving Holmes an eerie glow to the grey eyes. "It's John Donne," Holmes supplied, his voice suddenly odious.

"You know it then?"

"All too well," Holmes replied, his tone very somber. " _'Swear, no where lives a woman true and fair...'_ More truer words were never writ down, Watson."

As Watson watched Holmes' eyes drift to stare at nothingness, his mind went back to the photograph of Irene Adler, or _The Woman_. Was Holmes referring to her? What did this woman do that was so terrible? He now regretted that he brought the matter up, as it seemed to only worsen Holmes' mood, Watson could only shake his head. "Indeed? Well, thank you Holmes. I will have to find it when we return to London and refresh my memory of it."

But Holmes continued to stare blankly forward, and did so for the next few minutes before starting a conversation about the Bertillon system of measurements, one which Watson could barely follow. It provided enough distraction for Holmes, so Watson tried to show as much interest as possible. Having Holmes in a lighter mood when he saw Percy again would be beneficial for all.

 

At Briarbrae, Percy seemed to be recovering somewhat, although he was still under the care of Miss Harrison. He was anxious to see the two visitors. As soon as they took their seats in the sick room, he burst out, "We have had an adventure during the night! One which might have proved to be a serious one. Do you know that I begin to believe that I am the unconscious center of some monstrous conspiracy, and that my life is aimed at as well as my honor?"

At this, Holmes let out a soft "Ah." Watson gave the detective a warning look.

Percy's frantic rambling of the events of the night previous, with his eyes wide and his face still so very pale, did not help matters. He spent a good time describing the strange atmosphere in the air and the lighting in the room. But then he came upon the heart of the matter: "A man was crouching at the window. I could see little of him, for he was gone like a flash. He was wrapped in some sort of cloak which came across the lower part of his face. One thing only I am sure of, and that is that he had some weapon in his hand. It looked to me like a long knife. I distinctly saw the gleam of it as he turned to run." At which point Percy had then woken the household to investigate.

Holmes, who up until this point was utterly uninterested, leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. It was a look Watson had become familiar with: Sherlock Holmes had found a clue. "Indeed," he said, getting up from his seat and began pacing around the room. "Perhaps it would be beneficial for us to examine the snow outside, to see if the perpetrator has left any discernible footprints," Holmes suggested. "Mr. Phelps do you think you could accompany Watson outside?"

"Oh, yes, I should think the fresh air would do me a world of good. Joseph could come, too."

"And I also," said Miss Harrison.

"I am afraid not," Holmes said, stopping in front of the lady. "I think I must ask you to remain sitting exactly where you are." She did not look pleased in the slightest to do so, but she remained seated as Percy and Watson stood to leave. Holmes grabbed Watson's left arm gently as he began to exit the room. "Follow the footsteps until the wall, and observe where they go. Try not to make a scene of anything you may find."

"Why are you sending _me_ out there to investigate, Holmes?" Watson furiously whispered in reply.

"Because I need to check the fireplace and speak to Miss Harrison."

" _Check the fireplace?_ Holmes, he said nothing of the fireplace!"

Holmes looked quite pleased with himself. "Yes, and is that not a trifle odd?" He nodded towards Percy, who was now standing in the doorway with Mr. Harrison. "Go with them, or they will begin to suspect something."

"Holmes-" The stern look that Holmes gave Watson prevented any further argument on Watson's part. As Watson exited the room, he saw from the corner of his eye Holmes kneeling before the fireplace and examining the brickwork. For what, Watson had no idea.

 

It was as Holmes had said. There was a clear path of footsteps leading away from the window of Percy's sick room, that headed towards a small stone wall near the garden. However, the snow was not very deep, and several of the footprints had since been ruined by what Watson only assumed could be the rousing of the rest of the household. Since the potential attack had happened during the night, there was no way for the members of the household to see well enough to leave the footprints alone. Watson followed what he could to the stone wall, only to find that the clear track of the perpetrator disappeared. Percy joined with him as he examined the yard, telling Watson of the visibility from the road and once again recalling what had happened.

Mr. Harrison watched Watson silently. He glanced uneasily toward the direction of the sick room a few times during Watson's investigation. He has to be worried about leaving his sister alone with Holmes, Watson thought. "I can take Percy back if you would like to go back to the house, Mr. Harrison," Watson offered. "I am almost done out here."

Mr. Harrison nodded. "Thank you, Doctor Watson. My constitution does not do well in the cold," he said gruffly, before heading back towards the house.

As soon as Mr. Harrison's back was turned to them, Percy leaned into Watson, who in turn moved to take Percy's arm instead in an attempt to let Percy know that things between them were not what they were when they were schoolboys. Slowly they walked towards the house, Percy looking curious, but smiling just the same. "He seems a good man, your Sherlock Holmes. I must confess, I did not think his type would be your preference. But then I suppose our tastes change with age."

"I'm quite sure I do not know what you are talking about, Percy." Watson could feel his neck and ears heat up despite the bitter cold outside. "Have you ever had an alarm like this before?" he asked, trying to keep the subject on the case at hand.

"Never," Percy replied, the smile still on his lips.

"Do you keep valuable plates in the house, or anything else that might attract burglars?"

"No, nothing of value." Percy shrugged.

By this time they had reached the house. Percy, mercifully, let go of Watson's arm and walked forward as Holmes and Miss Harrison could readily be seen from the sickroom window, which was now open. Holmes beckoned the two men over.

"Holmes," Watson said with admonishing tone, "You really should not have opened the window to the sick room. All of the heat-"

"I believe solving this case is more important than the climate of Mr. Phelps' sick room, do you not agree Mr. Phelps?" Holmes replied with a wide, but annoyed, smile.

"What do you propose now, Mr. Holmes?" Percy asked.

"Well, in investigating this minor affair we must not lose sight of our main inquiry. It would be a very great help to me if you would come up to London with us this evening. The doctor could take care of any wants you may have, and I have already spoken to Miss Harrison about the matter and she agrees."

Percy's face lit up. "Then, if my friend of the night comes to revisit me, he will find the bird flown! How soon do we leave?"

"As soon as you readily can," Holmes replied. Watson could not help but notice the detective's eyes were still sparkling. Turning to Miss Harrison, Holmes added, "Remember your promise, Miss Harrison. It is of the utmost importance for both the case, and your safety."

Although she was not as close to the window, Watson could see Miss Harrison nod in agreement. Even from where Watson was standing, it was clear that whatever air of displeasure she felt when asked to stay behind was now gone. She looked pensive, and a tad more pale. Watson could not help but wonder what she and Holmes discussed.

 

Percy was far too weak to walk back to the train station, so a small carriage was brought to the house and the three rode to the station in silence. As they boarded the train, Holmes announced calmly that he had no intention of leaving Woking that evening.

"There are one or two small points which I should desire to clear up before I go," said Holmes. "Your absence, Mr. Phelps, will in some ways rather assist me."

"Holmes, what on earth–!"

"Watson," Holmes said sternly, "when you reach London if you would oblige me by driving at once to Baker Street with our friend here, and remaining with him until I see you again. It is fortunate that you are old school fellows, as you must have much to talk over. Do not leave the rooms. Hopefully, I will be with you in time for breakfast." Holmes shut the door to the compartment, but the windows were still lowered.

"But how about our investigation in London?" Percy asked.

"I think that just at present I can be of more immediate use here. Oh, and Watson," Holmes added, grabbing Watson's forearm, "Do be careful. And be sure to keep the rooms well-ventilated."

"What?"

The departing whistle echoed through the air.

"Promise me that you will!" Holmes said, gripping Watson's arm a bit tighter.

"I promise, Holmes!" Watson replied, a bit bewildered.

Holmes let go of Watson's arm as the train whistle blew a second time. He waved goodbye as the train began to slowly pull away. A strange feeling sank in Watson's stomach as worry began to take over his thoughts.

"I suppose he wants to find out some clues as to the burglary last night, if it was indeed a burglar." Percy shrugged as he sat himself down. "For myself, I don't believe it was an ordinary thief."

Watson, who was vaguely listening to what Percy was saying, watched as Holmes turned away from the departing train. After Holmes' figure disappeared, he closed the window. "What is your own idea, then?" he asked.

Percy looked as if there was no other thing in the world that would excite him as much as to answer. "Upon my word, you may put it down to my weak nerves or not, but I believe there is some deep political intrigue going on around me, and that for some reason that passes my understanding my life is aimed at by the conspirators. It sounds high-flown and absurd, but consider the facts–" He babbled on about his so-called conspiracy for some time. Watson remembered to nod occasionally, and make approving noises as Percy spoke, all the while the doctor's mind was racing with worry over Holmes.

It was even worse once they reached Baker Street. The longer they were away from Woking, the more Percy's nerves began to eat away at him. He was worried that Holmes would not recover the treaty, and it would be the end of him. Even when Watson tried to change the subject, and bring up other matters such as telling stories about his exploits in Afghanistan or social matters, Percy would still bring the matter back to the treaty. "You have implicit faith in Holmes?" he finally asked Watson.

Despite everything Watson had witnessed, all of Holmes' vices and oddities, there was no hesitation. "I have seen him do some remarkable things," Watson replied.

"Do you think he is hopeful?" Percy pressed, "Do you think he expects to make a success of it?"

Other than he is quite bored with the case, Watson thought. He shrugged. "He has said nothing of it that I am aware of. But he can be quite the slither-outer, and he jumps from one thing to the next so much that it can be quite hard to follow his line of thinking some days."

The world looked as though it crushed down on Percy. "That is a bad sign."

"On the contrary! It is in Holmes' nature to leave me in the dark until the final moments. It can be quite frustrating at times, I will admit. However, I do believe it is part of his method and I have yet to see it fail. He is the best and wisest man I have ever met." Watson paused after saying the last part. He had not realized it until then, but it was quite true. He was so astounded by Holmes' talents, and had grown so accustomed to being around him and being included on his adventures, that he could not quite think of a life without him.

Percy raised an eyebrow at Watson, but he saw the surprised look on his friend's face and decided not to push the matter further.

That night, despite the assurances he offered to Percy, Watson found it quite difficult to sleep. So many questions about the case were floating around in his mind. Why did Holmes stay, but not want Watson there? What was the promise he had made with Miss Harrison? Why did he pretend to go with them to London? And why was Holmes so insistent about having ventilation in the rooms in Baker street? Surely they were safe from any danger there!

When the clock stuck two in the morning, Watson gave up on the prospect of sleep and instead went down the small staircase from his room to the sitting rooms. In the collections of books Holmes had, he found a collection of poems from the fifteenth century and set about finding the entirety of the poem sent to him in the note. At least then one of the mysteries floating in his head would be solved. At last, he found the poem called _Song_ :

_Go and catch a falling star,  
Get with child a mandrake root,  
Tell me where all past years are,  
Or who cleft the devil's foot,  
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,  
Or to keep off envy's stinging,  
        And find  
        What wind  
Serves to advance an honest mind.  
  
If thou be'st born to strange sights,  
Things invisible to see,  
Ride ten thousand days and nights,  
Till age snow white hairs on thee,  
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,  
All strange wonders that befell thee,  
        And swear,  
        No where  
Lives a woman true and fair.  
  
If thou find'st one, let me know,  
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;  
Yet do not, I would not go,  
Though at next door we might meet,  
Though she were true, when you met her,  
And last, till you write your letter,  
        Yet she  
        Will be  
False, ere I come, to two, or three. _  
---  
  
Having the poem in it's entirety did not help, but only confuse Watson more. Why would anyone send this to him in a note? It seemed to a be a poem quite against the idea of love. No wonder Holmes knew it so well, Watson mused. He read the poem over again, trying to break the meaning down, taking notes down in his notepad. The poem confused him as much as it had when he was a boy at school. Before Watson realized it, he fell asleep at the writing desk, pencil in hand.

 

The next morning was Christmas Eve day. The clouds still hung low in the sky, but had produced a light sprinkling of snow on the streets. Percy looked as though he managed to sleep as badly as Watson had. They sat at the dinning table, slowly eating a breakfast of buttered toast and tea when Watson heard footsteps outside the sitting room. He and Percy leapt from their chairs when the door swung open, to reveal Holmes. The detective had a disappointed look on his face. "Ah, it seems that I am too late!"

"Oh no!" Percy shouted. "It's too late?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "I promised Watson I would be back in time for breakfast, but it seems you have already started."

Watson cleared his throat, trying not to laugh at Percy as his face suddenly went from dread, to confusion, to anger. It was a typical reaction to Holmes' theatrics, but amusing none the less. "Were you successful?"

Nodding, Holmes slowly reached for his coat pocket and brought out a royal blue envelope with delicate tassels. "I do believe this is what you have been searching for, Mr. Phelps?" Holmes took a step over the threshold. For a brief second, he winced as he moved.

It was something so subtle, that Watson was sure Percy had missed it. But he certainly had not. On a second look, Watson noticed that Holmes looked quite more pale than usual as well. He briskly walked to over to the detective and asked, "You are not wounded, Holmes?"

"Only a scratch through my own clumsiness," Holmes shrugged nonchalantly. Now that he was closer Watson could see that Holmes' left arm was not in the sleeve of Holmes' winter coat. Watson's stomach sank. For Holmes to be holding himself in such a way, it could not be _only_ a scratch.

" _Holmes._ "

"Mr. Phelps, you must excuse our mutual friend. His motherly instincts tend to outweigh his manners." Holmes made a circular motion with the hand holding the treaty, indicating he wanted Percy to take it from him.

Percy took the treaty and proceeded to kiss it. "God bless you!" he cried. "You have saved my honor! But where did you find it?"

"In your sick room," Holmes said flatly. There was another flash of pain on his face. Watson took a step closer to him.

"My what?"

"Holmes," Watson said, reaching for the detective. "You _are_ wounded. You need to let me examine you."

Blatantly ignoring Watson, Holmes gave Percy another wide smile. "You see after I left you two at the train station I-" Letting out a grunt of pain, Holmes doubled over.

"Holmes!" Watson caught the detective in his arms and brought him down to the floor. As Watson's hand pressed on the front of Holmes' chest, he realized that the black coat Holmes was wearing was stiff with what could only be dried blood. It had been a texture he had become all too familiar with during his time in Afghanistan. The color drained from the doctor's face. He did not spare one moment, nearly ripping Holmes' winter coat in two to be able to see just how serious the wound was.

"It's all right, Watson. It's all right," Holmes said, calmingly. It was all too much for Watson that Holmes could be so calm when it was he who was wounded.

The sight of Holmes' dress shirt stained with blood was too much for Percy's delicate sensibilities, and gave a light "Oh!" before planting himself in the wicker chair and doing his best to stare out the window. Watson paid him no mind, as the detective bleeding out on the floor was more crucial. Watson ripped open the detective's white shirt and saw a bandage wrapped around Holmes' chest, soaked with dried blood. "How is this in any way a mere scratch, Holmes!" Watson said, his voice shaking. The amount of blood made Watson apprehensive. He needed to check the wound quickly.

"Really, Watson there is nothing you need concern yourself over. I have already attended the wound," Holmes replied. From the way he was trying to brush it off, it could have been some other person's blood all over his clothes.

"Sorry if I need to check for myself. After all, I am a _doctor_ ," Watson retorted. He turned to Percy, who was still swooning from the sight. "Percy, do some good and hand me the scissors off of the desk!" he barked.

Percy sprang up from the wicker chair and did as he was told. As he handed Watson the scissors, he made sure to look the other way. Watson snipped off the blood-soaked linens and to his horror saw the injury, though rather small, pierced Holmes' ribcage near his heart. The wound had not closed. He quickly grabbed Holmes' discarded jacket and applied pressure. "You daft, insufferable–! How could you just go alone–! What if–" Watson reached for Holmes' neck to see how strong his pulse was.

"Really, Watson–" Holmes insisted, sounding a bit more panicked. He attempted to push Watson's hand away, but the doctor would not have it. It was not the time to humor Holmes' antics. As Watson's fingers touched Holmes' carotid artery his eyes grew wide.

Sherlock Holmes did not have a heartbeat.


	6. In Which A Secret Is Unveiled

A quiet knock on the door roused Watson from a sleep he did not remember succumbing to. He rubbed his eyes wearily and slowly got up from the chair where he was keeping watch within Holmes' room. His leg ached as he walked through the sitting room. He opened the door to their rooms, not even bothering to ask who it was. "Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft Holmes nodded. "It is I who must thank you for calling on me so quickly." He walked past Watson into the middle of the abandoned sitting room. He eyed the bloodied clothes that were still lying on the floor. "I trust nothing has changed since your telegram?"

"Nothing," Watson shook his head. He gestured towards Holmes' room. "Would you like to see him?"

Mycroft, in what Watson was beginning to believe was a family trait, dodged the question by posing another, "I assume Mr. Phelps has since gone home?"

"Yes," Watson nodded. "Treaty in hand. The country is safe once again."

Mycroft looked at Watson for a moment, and then began to pace the room. It was precisely what the younger Holmes' habit was when contemplating a problem. Watson felt his lips form a small smile as he observed the family similarities. "I find myself rather embarrassed to admit that I had suspected Joseph Harrison to be the thief from the beginning. However, he was far more depraved and dangerous than I anticipated. I had not said anything, because Sherlock, well," the elder Holmes paused in his pacing and looked to Watson once more. "He does not like to have _hints_ , as he calls them, and would much rather discover facts for himself. But if I had said something, given some kind of warning–"

"I doubt anyone could have anticipated _this_ ," Watson replied, looking out of the window. The sky had grown dark. It was now Christmas Eve. Mycroft Holmes should have been in their rooms, wishing he and Holmes the season's greetings. Not apologizing for being unable to see the future.

"You must understand that I feel guilty, since it was I who gave Sherlock this commission. I did not say so at the time, but I gave the case to Sherlock for more reasons than just national security."

"What reasons?"

Mycroft looked to Watson. "However I am quite relieved that you now know." Another dodge.

"Know _what_ precisely?" Watson sharply replied, glaring at the elder Holmes. "That your brother is a medical impossibility!"

"You must have seen several things that were unexplainable while you were serving in the East." Mycroft reasoned. With a great sigh, Mycroft planted himself in the chair where Holmes normally sat. The act only made Watson all the more frustrated, however if Mycroft noticed he took no heed of it. Taking off his hat and placing it on the arm of the chair, he continued, "Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent."

"There is strange, and then there is impossible," Watson said, indignant. "Your brother has _no heartbeat_ and is yet lying down in that room of his, breathing and carrying on without regard to the workings _normal_ of human life! He should be dead!"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "If he is not dead, as you say he should be, then what would be the logical conclusion?"

Throwing his arms up in the air, Watson replied, "There is none!"

Tilting his head to the side, Mycroft steepled his fingers in front of his face. It was a motion that was a mimicry of his younger brother's habit, without the same eloquence. The two brothers were far too similar. "There is, you just have not considering it, for you have deemed it impossible."

Watson clenched his teeth. "Which is?"

"That he has no heart," Mycroft suggested. Shrugging at the incredulous glare Watson gave him, he added, "Or, rather: he was in possession of a heart at some point in his life, but it is no longer within him."

"Impossible!" Watson scoffed.

"You have witnessed that it isn't, yet you argue what you've seen with your medical judgment?" Mycroft chortled. "How you have managed to live with Sherlock for so long without learning how to make logical conclusions, I wonder!"

"Other than the fact that is physically impossible, there is still the matter of how that could be done without killing him!"

"That," Mycroft let out a long breath, "You would have to speak to him about, for I was not present at the procedure, nor would I let it have happened if I were. If it is any consolation, I was completely against the idea from the moment I was informed it had been done. The sacrifice he made in no way equaled what he received in return. Nor has it helped him since."

"What did he receive in return?" Although it seemed a fool thing to do to believe the utter nonsense of it all, Watson could not help but wonder what his friend would have given up so precious a thing as his heart for.

Mycroft smiled wanly before heaving himself out of Holmes' chair. "I think I will look in on him now, Doctor Watson. You are more than free to join me if you wish," he added before opening the door to Holmes' room.

Watson stared after him for a full three seconds before he let out an aggravated huff and followed the eldest Holmes brother into the room. As he walked through the door, Watson heard the soft baritone of Holmes' voice. He was awake then.

"You took too much of a risk going at it alone. You knew he would find out!" Mycroft admonished.

Holmes was now sitting up in his bed, arms crossed against his chest. His color still had not returned to normal, but the annoyed look on his face told Watson that he was at least close to feeling like his usual self. He looked to the doctor as he came into the room. "I thought you said I needed rest," he said, dramatically sighing. "Letting Mycroft into the rooms to berate me hardly would hardly allow that to happen."

" _Sherlock_ ," Mycroft said sternly. "If you continue to take such risks, then I will be forced to desist my aiding you in your little pursuit. I am your elder brother and I refuse to be the death of you. I don't care whether you have a heart or not, you can still die!"

Seeming bored with Mycroft's scolding, Holmes shrugged. Leaning over to his night stand, he made a show of pulling a cigarette out from the case that sat on the top. Watson reached out to take the cigarette out of Holmes' mouth. "Please do not–" The doctor began to say.

With a small smirk, Holmes gestured to Watson. "You see? There was nothing to worry about, brother mine. Doctor Watson–"

" _Doctor Watson_ was just as concerned as I, if not _more so_. You should take that into consideration before you decide on your next fool's errand." With a put upon sigh, Mycroft sat down in the chair that Watson had been keeping watch in. The wooden chair creaked loudly in protest of the elder Holmes' girth. "Did you at least discover if your theory was correct? Was Moriarty the go between?"

At the mention of the Professor's name, Watson's eyes grew wide. Moriarty? Was he one of the 'other reasons' Mycroft had indicated? Had Holmes tired to take on Moriarty without him?

"There is no doubt in my mind," Holmes replied, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and placing it back on the night stand. "I found traces of _radix pedis diaboli_ in Mr. Phelp's fireplace," Holmes produced a small paper square. He handed it to Mycroft, who examined it for a moment and then pocketed it. "There is only one criminal in Europe who has a ready supply of it. Moriarty must have given it to Mr. Harrison in order to assure the treaty was retrieved."

"Devil's foot root?" Watson asked, grasping at the only part of the Holmes' brothers conversation he only understood. "What is that?"

"A type of powder used in West African tribes, I've been told," Holmes explained. "When exposed to combustion, the power produces a thick smoke that causes hallucinations that lead to insanity, and eventually death. You recall a few weeks ago when I forced you to evacuate the rooms? I remember clearly how annoyed you were. I was testing the potency when burned."

"You burned that in _here_? Holmes!"

"I did not realize what would happen, nor did I know how strong such a small amount would be. It took hours before it was safe to return, and I did not let anyone into the rooms until it was so, if you recall."

"But you could have told–" Watson's color drained as he began to slowly understand what Holmes was inferring. "Good lord. So all this time... For nine weeks poor Percy has been exposed–"

Holmes shook his head. "In Mr. Phelp’s case, to be exposed for such a duration, he would have surely gone mad by now. But who is to say that he was not periodically exposed during his 'recovery'? It would surely explain why his 'brain storm' had lasted so long. It wasn't until yesterday when he was telling us of his little 'adventure,' as he called it, did I think to check for traces of it in the fireplace. His description was more vivid than a nightmare, but too surreal for it to have happened just in that way. Therefore," Holmes waved his hands, "The powder. Sad to say, however, Mr. Harrison's plan seemed to have backfired on itself, as the small exposure Mr. Phelps did encounter only served to have him stay in the sick room for a longer period of time. Mr. Harrison was quite unable to retrieve the treaty that he had securely hidden in the floorboards of the sick room in the area usually left to enable plumbers to get at the joints of the gas-pipes."

"If he burned this devil's foot root the night Percy saw him, Mr. Harrison risked exposing himself to the deadly stuff as well?" Watson asked, still confused over the matter.

"But recall Mr. Phelps' description that the thief's face was very well hidden. A thick scarf would probably prevent the effects of the smoke at least partially, although I am in no condition to find out at the moment." Mycroft glared at his younger brother, who only smiled in return. "Or perhaps he got one of the house staff to do it– although it would be far less risky to add the powder himself. Mr. Harrison could not risk being discovered, so why not break into the room under the illusion of being a nightmare? Then he could retrieve the treaty and take it to his go-between. One of Moriarty's men would have handled the selling, so as to not risk involving Mr. Harrison's name and being discovered. However, when you and I came to investigate the case, he became worried and moved too quickly, possibly without the consent of Moriarty. If only Mr. Harrison had not been so desperate, Moriarty would have eventually had a very powerful agent, being the brother to the soon-to be wife of Mr. Phelps." Holmes let out an amused chuckle.

Mycroft sighed again. "You know sometimes, _petit frère_ , I think you enjoy the sound of your own voice rather too much." The elder Holmes shook his head. "This is still all conjecture. You have no hard evidence, save for the charred remains of your African powder. It's still nothing _I_ can act upon."

"Yes I am aware of that, thank you Mycroft," Holmes replied, rolling his eyes. "I am so glad to know the almost fatal wound I sustained in this investigation is mere _conjecture_."

"Where is Harrison now?"

Chuckling loudly, Holmes replied, "He ran away fairly quickly when he despairingly realized that trying to stab Sherlock Holmes in the heart was an unachievable task." He carefully stretched his arms above his head., but still managed to anger the wound on his chest and flinched.

Mycroft smiled. "It would have been ideal to arrest him, but I can understand why you let him escape."

"He was bleeding out–" Watson argued.

"Not so much that he could not still get on a train and then a cab from Waterloo to here. No, no, doctor," Mycroft nodded towards his brother, "Sherlock let Harrison escape, didn't you?"

"Holmes?" Watson turned to the detective.

There was a slight pause as Holmes contemplated his reply. Finally, with a sigh he said, "It seemed to be the wisest path to take. After all, Miss Harrison is not at fault for her brother's actions, but it would not be seen that way in White Hall. Mr. Phelps' name would be tarnished further as well."

"I'm sure Percy would be very grateful," Watson replied, a small smile on his face. For a man without a heart, it seemed Holmes was constantly doing nice things for his clients.

Holmes looked to Watson, a strange expression on his face that Watson couldn't quite read. "It was not for his sake that I did it."

Watson felt his ears grow warm. "I- I see. Then for Miss Harrison's happiness?"

"Not in the least."

The elder Holmes brought out his pocket watch and looked at the time. "I have a meeting at White Hall in half an hour. I must take my leave." He closed the watch and turned to his younger brother. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock. Do try to stay safe at least until the new year. I do not think my nerves can take another panicked telegram from Doctor Watson for quite some time."

"I appolo–"

"There is nothing for you to be sorry for, doctor," Mycroft interjected. "You are not the one who was injured. You acted as the situation demanded." Pushing himself up from the chair, which gave another pained _creak_ , Mycroft showed himself out of the room, calling out "And a happy Christmas to you as well, doctor!"

As the sitting room door closed, Watson and Holmes found themselves alone, with a thick atmosphere in the air. There were a thousand questions floating through Watson's mind. He was not sure where to begin. But Holmes needed his rest, so perhaps it would have been better to wait until he had fully recovered to ask–

"I know you have questions, dear Watson," Holmes hummed, closing his eyes and leaving his head against the wall. "A man with your medical background could hardly be expected to see what you have and not wish to solicit further answers."

Watson blanched. "If you are not feeling up to it–"

"I am not," Holmes said flatly as he maneuvered his body back under the covers. Once comfortable lying down, he opened his eyes and looked to Watson. "However I believe I owe it to you after what I put you through this morning."

"Your brother explained what he could–"

"I will allow three questions, and then if we could consider the matter closed? It is a subject I prefer not to speak of."

Watson hesitated for a moment. "How- how was it done?"

Closing his eyes once more, Holmes spoke in a quiet voice. "It is a highly regarded secret, but I suppose since you already know that an exchange was done, I can tell you. There are very few people in this world who can perform such a ceremony. I had to travel to a tucked away mountain village on the continent. It requires two persons, the subject and the witness. A bargain is agreed upon for subject, a payment for the contract. I do not recall much of the ceremony of it all. Only that I had pain, and then it was gone. All of it."

"What could possibly be more important than the possession of your heart?"

"I was assured that had no need of my heart and in exchange I was able to understand the world on a much deeper, yet higher level. At the time, it seemed a reasonable offer. Indeed, the exchange heightened all of my detective senses to the point where I almost matched that of my brother's. My deductive and observational powers improved tenfold. When I am working on a case now, it is as if I can see it all play out before me. Without my heart in the way, I do not have to worry about the messy emotional side of things, because there is nothing there to feel it. The sensation is indescribable, my dear Watson. But it is magnificent." Holmes closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. "However, I was deceived by the one who witnessed my contract."

"Irene Adler," Watson supplied. "Did she take your heart?" After all, that would seem the most logical conclusion. It would also explain why Holmes was so sensitive to the clients who had their trust broken. How blind Watson had been!

"How the devil–! Not even Mycroft would–!" Watson's face immediately flushed. He tried to hide his embarrassment by looking away from the detective, but he was too slow for Holmes. A wide, knowing, smile formed on Holmes' lips. In a most imperial tone, the detective said, "Ah I see you and Mrs. Hudson have been gossiping about me."

"Not in the way you may think." Watson flustered. "I was concerned about your habits, you see, and well, I got into your desk drawer while you were interviewing Lord Holdhurst-"

"Where you had no business in prying," Holmes remarked, looking more amused than annoyed.

"It was only out of concern!" Watson defended. "After witnessing for so many weeks how the drugs change you–" he hesitated, realizing now how hopeless it had been for so many weeks to appeal to Holmes' emotions. A heartless man would never understand the worry the doctor had been suffering from. "I was distracted by Ms. Adler's photo. Mrs. Hudson came in as I was looking at it and scolded me. She also warned me not to bring the matter up with you. She was only trying to help."

"One thing that you must learn about _their_ kind, Watson, is to never trust what a woman says at face value, especially when they are trying to 'help.' They speak in double meanings as a habit. It is impossible to know their true intentions until it is too late."

"Mrs. Hudson was genuinely concerned."

"I know that is not possible," Holmes shook his head. Closing his eyes, Holmes let out a small sigh. "Of course you fail to realize what the question you should be asking is: How is any of it possible? After all, you know as well as I that a heart is required for a great many things in the human body, and seeing as I am living proof of the opposite–"

"I was not intending to ask that," Watson replied.

"Well you should have, although I am not sure how I could answer it,” he said, looking to the ceiling. "I know that am here. I can feel my blood moving–"

"I had no intention of asking that because I think it is better I do not know," Watson said, a bit uneasily. "Think of it as one of your cases, where you leave me to make the connections myself. This is the first time I have encountered something so fantastical, Holmes. You defy everything normal in this world."

"I take that as a compliment," Holmes remarked, grinning.

"Yes, I rather thought you would," Watson replied, returning the smile. "But what I was wondering how we could go about... reversing it? Could you return your heart?"

"That would entail a great many things, the most crucial of which requiring me desiring to possess my heart once more."

Watson was taken a back slightly by this. "Don't you?"

"Not at this time," Holmes shook his head. "Not while Moriarty is still out there. That's four questions, Watson. I do believe I have been quite generous and you have had your fair amount of inquiries on the matter. Therefore, we shall call it closed."

"But, Holmes! What does the Professor have anything to do with you repossessing your heart?"

"He has everything to do with it," Holmes' seethed quickly, the tone in his voice became contemptuous. It looked as though he intended to say more, but he bit the inside of his cheek. With a steady, calming breath, the detective added, "I tell you Watson, that if I could beat that man– if I could free society of him– I should feel that my own career had reached its summit, and I should be prepared to turn to some more placid line in life. But until that happens, I shall stay as I am." He looked over to Watson, with a strange expression on his face– not quite upset but yet longing. "Now if I could have some peace? As you said, I need my rest."

Watson stared for a moment before nodding dumbly. "Yes... yes of course."

Holmes kept to himself for the remainder of the evening. Not even the temptation of Mrs. Hudson's Christmas goose would get him to leave his room. Watson managed to convince Holmes to at least take a plate of food into his room, only to have Holmes shut the door promptly after taking the plate, nearly smashing Watson's nose in the act.

For his part, Watson continued his analysis of the poem from the night previous. The line _who cleft devil's foot_ caught Watson's attention. Could it be Holmes? After all, he had discovered the devil's foot root. He wrote that down next to the line and then proceeded to interpret the poem from actions that he knew that Holmes had undertaken. He was beginning to think that the poem could explain the process Holmes had undergone. Not that Watson was one to believe in such things. But after Holmes' revelation, he was willing to put stock in the matter that there are perhaps things of this world that go beyond the understanding of science. Perhaps that was what the anonymous sender was trying to warn him of. And if that was the intentions, who sent him the letter? Could it be Ms. Adler? For other than he, Holmes, and Mycroft, it seemed no one else knew of Holmes' condition.

The notes of his theories began to overtake several pages in the doctor's notebook. _Are falling stars required for the event to take place? Or finding mandrake root? Mandrake root needed in order to create contract? Did the contract advance Holmes' honest mind? How old is Holmes? 27 years = ten thousand days_ and so on.

As he was writing, Watson noticed that the desk drawer was still slightly open. He slid the desk drawer open and placed Adler's photo open on the desk. Holmes could not mind now that his secret was revealed. Watson stared at it, intrigued by the mysterious beauty. "Do you have Holmes' heart?" he asked of the picture. After several moments, he sighed. "How could he not love you?" Watson mused, looking at Adler's letter again.

Meanwhile, screeching melodies came from Holmes' Stradivarius within the detective's room. Watson wanted to remind the detective that violin playing would not serve to help recently injured people without hearts to recover, but bit the comment back and focused on the poem. It was Christmas, after all.


	7. In Which A Heart is Found

The sky Christmas morning was quite the opposite of what it had been the previous days. The sun was bright, almost blinding, and woke Watson up far earlier than he intended on rising. He had been up late making more notes on the Donne poem, but also because Holmes decided that late night solo violin concerts should last past three in the morning. Groaning at the sun's rays, Watson shoved off his blankets and slowly got dressed for the day. He heard no movement from the sitting room below, but that was to be expected. Holmes was not the early riser if he could at all help it. Watson decided he was going to get revenge by making sure to make a good racket when he came down his small stairway. Watson walked slowly down the stairs, making sure to stomp each foot more heartily than he normally would. His leg was still giving him problems due to the cold, but it was not nearly as bad as it had been in days previous, so he could take this liberty in order to annoy Holmes.

Watson heard no movement within Holmes' room. When he tried the door, it was locked and there was no answer when he knocked. Deciding to let Holmes rest, Watson walked over to the writing table instead. He had left his papers out last night, and thought it would be best for Holmes to not see the extensive notes he had been taking. But his papers were gone. And Adler's photo was missing. Quickly, he walked over to the desk and opened the drawer. It was completely empty. Guiltily, he thought of Holmes waking in the night to find Adler's photo out, as well as the several personal notes Watson had taken. Watson resolved to apologize as soon as the detective was awake.

The sound of the front door closing echoed from downstairs. Watson listened for Mrs. Hudson’s voice, but heard only footsteps. He decided to investigate on his own. Leaving the sitting room and descending the seventeen steps, Watson stopped short on the first landing.

Standing at the foot of the stairs was a man Watson had never seen before.

He was extremely tall, pale and thin, even more-so than Holmes. His forehead domed out in a white curve, and his sharp eyes were sunken deeply into his head. His shoulders were rounded and his head slowly oscillated from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion. Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be seen. "Good morning, Doctor Watson. And if I may, Happy Christmas." Even the man's voice sounded cold-blooded. Watson was so shocked by the stranger's presence, he could only remain still, his hand on the stair banister tightening. "You evidently don't know me."

"It is not in my habit to be in the acquaintance of people who break into other people's homes so early in the morning."

The man gave a tight smile. "What a mouth you have! I did not expect that from my reports." He moved his head back and forth once more. If he slithered his tongue, Watson would swear the man was actually part lizard.

"If you have come to see Mr. Holmes, he is not available at this time," Watson replied, narrowing his eyes at the stranger. "But if you would like to leave a message with me, I can tell him that you called. I will even omit that you came into our house uninvited."

The stranger shrugged. "There is no need to trouble yourself with that, doctor." He then gave a slight nod.

Watson glanced to his side to see another figure. How on earth? He had heard nothing come from behind him! Watson tried to jump away, but the stranger grabbed him from behind, and placed a large damp cloth over his mouth and nose. Watson could smell that the cloth had been soaked in chloroform, and tried to fight against the man holding him.

The stranger slowly ascended the stairs, watching Watson struggle against his attacker. "You see, the message I will be leaving him will be much more poignant."

"He's a fighter al'right, Professor!" Watson's captor commented with a deep chuckle as he twisted along with Watson.

"Yes, make sure you don't damage him too much, Moran, he has a long journey ahead of him," the other gentleman remarked. Watson heard footsteps approaching him, but it was becoming all too hard to keep his eyes open to see. Just as the room began to dim, Watson heard a voice whisper in his ear: "Have you caught your falling star yet, Doctor Watson?"

 

Watson awoke, unable to see. His eyes were trapped in a darkness, and his head felt incredibly heavy from inhaling the chloroform. Quickly assessing the situation, he found that his hands were tied, and it felt as though there was something wrapped around his head. A blindfold, then. That would explain the darkness. He could hear the echoes of a train running along the track, and his body was being swayed gentle back and forth. If he were Holmes, he would be able to tell instantly what direction he was going, as well as exactly where he was currently by the sounds of the wheels crossing the tracks. But he was not Holmes.

_Holmes!_

He was already incapacitated, could it be that they got the detective too? "Holmes?" Watson called into the darkness.

"Ah, I see you are awake, doctor," a slithery voice answered. It was the same man who had invaded their home. It was definitely not Holmes, and he did not need to be the consulting detective to deduce that he was in fact in the capture of Professor Moriarty. Watson felt a hand cup around his chin. "I was beginning to worry that Moran had used a bit too much chloroform on you. You have been quite motionless for the last few hours."

"Where is Holmes?" Watson demanded.

The voice chuckled. "So long as he has not killed himself in the effort, I am sure Mr. Holmes is on our trail at this very moment."

It was Watson's turn to laugh. "You must not know Holmes very well. Kidnapping me would do you no good. He would not fall for such an obvious trap."

"How can you be so sure this is a trap?" Moriarty slid his fingers up Watson's jaw. "After all, I could have just as easily grabbed Mr. Holmes instead of you,"

Watson realized this was true and gave the Professor a suspicious look. "Then why take me?"

"I require something of Mr. Holmes. He has already failed to comply with several of my gracious requests, I therefore had to resort to drastic tactics."

"He will not come for me."

"You sound so sure." Moriarty playfully tapped the doctor on the face. "But I have already received reports to the contrary. "

They traveled by train for several days. Watson was uncertain of the precise of a duration of time that had passed, as his blindfold was never lifted, and he sometimes found it difficult to keep conscious. At one point, Watson overheard a ticket collector say something to the Professor in French that he did not understand, but clearly heard the name "Strasbourg" meaning they had crossed the channel at some point, probably whilst Watson was still unconscious, and were now making their way through France.

There were times that he was moved from train to train, at which point he would be gagged in order to prevent him from making a scene. Only Professor Moriarty, with his super-network of connections could get away with escorting someone blindfolded and gagged without arousing any suspicion. Watson assumed the change of trains was to throw Holmes off of their path, but why? After all, wasn't that what Moriarty wanted? To snare Holmes into his trap? Perhaps the Professor did not want things to appear easy. Whatever his plan was, Watson could not make heads or tails of any it.

 

The blindfold covering Watson's eyes was removed after the small group boarded a horse-drawn carriage. Watson squinted at the bright light after being in darkness for so long. After his eyes adjusted, he quickly took in his situation. They were near mountains, snow covered and gleaming with sheer beauty, reminding Watson of his time in India. Ahead of them was a quaint village, that would have been charming and quite inviting had he not been a prisoner of a criminal mastermind. The ground where they were was clear of snow, but the grass had already succumb to the death of Winter.

In the carriage were the three members of their traveling party. The same middle-aged man with the bushy moustache, who had captured Watson back at 221B that the Professor had called Moran. He held Watson's arm forcefully, preventing any attempt of escape. Now that Watson got a good look at his attacker, he could see that he had a military air to him. In any other circumstance, he might have considered Moran a comrade in arms, but the harsh lines dug into Moran's face that signaled to Watson that the two men were enlisted for two very different reasons. Moran was a dangerous man, who liked the hunt and looked forward to the kill. In his lap he had a small Gladstone bag, with his other arm lying protectively on the parcel. Sitting across from him in the carriage was Professor Moriarty himself. Being so close to him, Watson could see there was a coldness to his eyes, though they were similar to Holmes. But while Holmes' grey eyes were things of beauty, looking into the Professor's eyes ran a chill down Watson’s spine. There was nothing but evil and maliciousness in them.

"Where are you taking me?" Watson demanded.

Moriarty chuckled. "My dear boy, I thought you had figured it all out. From what Moran found of your notes, you seemed to understand the thing quite thoroughly as an outsider."

Watson's eyes grew a bit wider as he stared for a moment. "It was you sent me the poem."

"Admirably deduced. Mr. Holmes has trained you well." Moriarty signaled to the driver. "Drive on!" he said and the carriage began to pull away. The Professor turned his attention back to Watson. "Our final destination is a small hamlet called Rosenlaui, however it is quite an undulating path so we shan't be able to take the carriage the entire way. You will like the view I think, doctor, as I have visited here once before. It is quite breath taking." The Professor's mouth formed a cold grin. "And fear not! Your beloved Holmes will be joining us quite soon. Quite soon. He knows the way." Moriarty turned his attention out the window, seemingly to lose interest in Watson completely.

"Holmes will not come," Watson repeated. The Professor chuckled to himself, but continued to look out the window.

"Of course he will come," the Professor said, with a playful tone. "And when he does I will get him to understand my way of thinking one way or the other."

Watson began to fear that, as usual, he had missed something quite obvious. Usually Holmes would be there to guide him along the logical path, but without him here, the doctor had to admit that there were quite a few things he didn't understand. The one thing he did know, however, was that he needed to escape. If Holmes was on their trail, Watson needed to stop him from confronting Moriarty. Holmes was in no condition for anything at the moment.

As they progressed on their journey, the carriage went over a large bump, causing the bag from under Moran's arms to tumble forward. He scrambled to grab the bag before it fell to the floor, leaving Watson free to try to play against his restraints. Moran failed, and the bag snapped open. Watson saw in the corner of is eye a blackened rock roll out of the bag. It was a strange shape and rolled in an awkward circle.

"Be careful, you fool!" Moriarty bellowed, his attention snapping back to what was happening inside the carriage.

Moran's face flushed as he scrambled to put the small rock back in the bag. "My apologies, Professor," Moran mumbled, putting both arms around the bag, and leaving Watson alone. "It won't happen again."

"I am most certain it will not, for you know what will happen if you were to lose it." Moriarty glared.

 

 

They stopped at a small village called Meiringen, where the entire party exited the carriage. Moran took the lead, carrying the Gladstone bag as if his life depended on it (and Watson was beginning to believe it did), Watson followed as Moriarty took the rear aiming his mini-pistol at the doctor, ready to fire should he decide to deviate from Moran's lead.

It was a somber party indeed. While there was no snow to speak of on their path, Watson was by no means dressed for climbing the steep hills. When Watson slipped on the rocks, which happened several times, he struggled to regain his balance with his hands still tied together. As they climbed, the sound of rushing water became louder and louder, until finally the source was visible. Their approach had taken them to the middle of a large waterfall. It was a fearful place. The torrent plunged into a tremendous abyss, from which the spray rolled up like the smoke from a burning house. The entire party, quite unintentionally, paused in awe of the natural beauty. Even Watson, who was trying to free himself from his restraints while the other two were slightly distracted, found himself overtaken by the fierce scene.

Because of the deafening roar of the falls, no one in the traveling party heard footsteps approaching. "Taking a trip down memory lane?" A voice suddenly asked. Watson, as well as the other members of the party, turned around to see Holmes standing there. He looked quite haggard and pale, but determined as ever, his eyes glowing. Watson had never been more happy to see anyone in his life. Because of the rolling water's sound, Holmes had to shout in order to be heard. "After all, this isn't your first trip to the falls of Reichenbach, is it, Professor Moriarty?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," Moriarty smiled and tipped his head. "I was expecting you. So glad you could join us on our way to Rosenlaui. You remember Rosenlaui, don't you?"

Holmes' stare turned cold. "Not very fondly, I assure you." He looked to Watson. "Are you alright?" Watson nodded once. Turning his attention back to the Professor, Holmes seethed, "The game is over, Moriarty. I saw to it before I left England to have your criminal network destroyed."

The Professor shrugged, "One is easily built again. Especially with assistance from someone who shares my condition."

The mask of self-confidence slipped from Holmes' face. Glaring, he retorted, "It was not your place to steal Watson away like that. He was not involved in this."

"On the contrary, Mr. Holmes. You have brought him into your world and therefore put him at risk. It was a calculated move to take him, but in the end worked, as you are here. I would make an offer of exchange at this point, but all that I have to say has already crossed your mind."

"And my answer has crossed yours," Holmes replied, taking a step towards Watson.

"You stand fast then?"

"Absolutely."

Moriarty tilted his head slightly. "A pity." He looked over to Moran. "I suppose we will have to proceed with our alternate plans then, Colonel."

With a brief nod, Moran kicked Watson in the back of the knees. Watson fell to the ground instantly, struggling to keep himself propped up with his tied hands. His bad leg throbbed. Moriarty cocked the mini-pistol and aimed it at Watson's head. "His life in exchange for what I want done, Mr. Holmes. I will only ask once."

"I cannot exchange what I do not have," Holmes said calmly. Watson looked to Holmes, meeting the detective in the eye. He could recognize that Holmes had a plan, he was only waiting for the perfect moment to execute it. As always. Watson shook his head. If they survived this, he was going to enact the most severe of revenges on the detective.

Moriarty oscillated his head back and forth, glaring at Holmes. "You will excuse me if I find that quite difficult to believe. Perhaps after the doctor's condition leaves you no alternative, you will see reason." Watson felt the pistol push against his head.

A shot rang past his ears, half drowned by the sound of the falls. Watson closed his eyes the instant it sounded. There was no pain. He opened his eyes to see Moriarty clutching at a now empty hand, the pistol having fallen unseen on the ground. Moriarty let out a great howl and charged at Holmes. As Watson looked up to see what was happening, he saw a male figure some distance away, lowering what looked to be an air riffle. Holmes brought backup, apparently. Watson hoped that this was not the conclusion to Holmes' preparation. Wasting no time, Watson found a thin rock sticking out of the ground. He slid the rope around the rock and pulled. The rope snapped, and his hands were finally free.

Meanwhile, Moran gently placed the Gladstone bag on the ground. The colonel opened his jacket as he walked towards Holmes and Moriarty fighting. He pulled out a pistol. Using his left arm to steady his aim, Moran set his sights on Holmes. Returning the favor done earlier, Watson grabbed Moran by the knees. Moran dropped the gun, which rolled down into the grass, lost. In an attempt to be released from Watson's grasp, Moran began to kick his legs mercilessly. One leg managed to kick Watson in the shoulder. Watson recoiled in pain and released the colonel. Moran recovered, pulling himself to standing while Watson knelt on the ground. The two men stared at each other, breathing heavily before tackling each other once more in an all out gentleman's brawl.

Holmes' fight was not fairing much better. It was clear that Moriarty had no method to his fighting, but simply wanted to tear Holmes limb from limb if necessary. Holmes managed to grab hold of one of the Professor's arms and slowly maneuver him into a lock hold behind Moriarty's back. Another shot rang close to them, distracting Holmes for enough time for Moriarty to break out of Holmes' grasp. Not allowing the advantage, Holmes tried to pin down the Professor. Moriarty would not yield to the ground and threw his long arms around Holmes. Two struggled back and forth, pushing each other's weight against the other.

The colonel was a formidable fighter. Watson, even with his own Army training found it hard to take the advantage in the fight. He had received several hits to the face, and one to the solar plexus. Watson could feel blood dripping from one of the hits, and he could taste copper in his mouth. He was fading. As he was about to strike Moran again, another shot rang out and stuck Moran through the back. He made a gurgling noise, and grabbed his chest before falling to the ground. Watson stood there, dazed for a moment, and then blinked up at the marksman still hiding in the hills. Then he heard a strangled noise from where Holmes and Moriarty were still struggling, and his attention snapped to his friend. "Holmes!" Watson shouted, rushing over.

"The– bag–" Holmes grunted, pushing against Moriarty, trying to get the upper hand in their struggle. Moriarty growled as he pushed back.

Watson scrambled to reach the Gladstone bag and opened it. Inside was a jewel that looked remarkably like the Blue Carbuncle in shape and size, but was murky and black as midnight. It felt heavy in Watson's hand. The stone then began to throb like a heartbeat. Watson nearly dropped it in surprise. "The heart!" he exclaimed. "Holmes, your–"

Watson turned his attention back to Holmes to find that the two men were headed dangerously close to the edge of the falls. Without delay he raced over to Holmes just as the detective slipped out of the Moriarty's grip. Thrown by Holmes' parry, Moriarty clawed at the air in a vain effort, trying to stay standing. Finally his balance gave way and he fell into the torrential falls.

Holmes, who was dangerously close to edge as well, was also struggling to stay standing. Watson grabbed the detective by the waist. He pulled the detective into his embrace and to safe ground. He took a few steps backward, bringing Holmes with him, just to be sure he was safe.

"You're not hurt, Watson?" Holmes said, maneuvering himself so he could look his friend in the face. His voice sounded quite desperate. "For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!" Watson shook his head furiously, but could not yet speak. Holmes patted Watson on the cheek and leaned his head onto Watson's shoulder. "Well done, my dear Watson," Holmes said, panting for breath. "I am sorry for being late."

The two men stood there for a moment holding each other and catching their breath as the sound of the rushing water filled their ears.

"I hate to interrupt this charming moment, but Sherlock dear, we're not done," said a voice from behind them. A female voice, and American at that. Watson looked up to see the marksman approaching them, who was in fact a woman. A woman Watson had seen before, but only in a photograph. He knew those remarkable features well indeed.

"Irene Adler?" Watson said, completely stunned by her appearance. She was dressed in a brown and grey boy's hunting uniform. Her cap managed to hide the voluptuous hair Watson had taken note of, however a few stray curls managed to escape hiding. The airgun, which she carried by her side, was modified. It was the same airgun she had in the photograph.

The woman tipped her head in acknowledgement. "Charmed, Doctor Watson. You are even more dashing than Sherlock described you to be." The doctor felt his face flush. "We've seen each other once before, although I doubt you realized who I was that first night you were out with Sherlock. As you can see, I have a liking for traveling in men's clothes. I find it rather– freeing?" Watson thought back to that night of the red-headed league, and the young man who had greeted them. It was Adler! She was even wearing the same suit as before, although now she had on a warmer jacket. She turned her attention to Holmes. "Sherlock– the heart," she said imploringly.

"I am quite capable!" Holmes replied, grudgingly pulling away from Watson, glaring at Irene as he did. "Watson, may I have the jewel please?"

"What?" Watson blinked, lost in the moment. "Oh, yes of course, Holmes." He placed the jewel gently in Holmes' open palm. "You found it, at last," Watson said, smiling.

Holmes let out an amused snort. "Yes," he said, taking the stone and holding up to the light and examining it. "I have indeed."

Pushing both hands together, Holmes crushed the jewel into powder. He then drew back his arm and flung the remains into the falls. Watson's mouth dropped open. " _Holmes!_ " Watson took a few steps forward, watching the remains of the stone vanish into the water's mist. He turned to the detective, speechless. "But– Your heart–"

"Was not that blackened piece of charcoal," Holmes countered with a small smirk. "Unless you have some grievance with me ridding the world of Moriarty's black heart, Watson? You cannot possibly that forgiving–"

"That was Moriarty's–"

"Yes, and he had been separated from it for some time. He, like me, had decided to make the exchange not far from here in order to heighten his depraved mind to unthinkable levels. He thought the threat of making you do the same would cause me to return to this wretched place."

"He was right," Irene chimed in from behind Holmes. "You should have seen how panicked he was when he found me. There I was, enjoying a lovely lunch at a café in Paris when–"

"Yes, _thank you_ , Woman, not that you made the search very easy either. _She_ is the reason why I am late as it took me some time to locate her," Holmes glared. "Moriarty wanted me to join his ranks, not only for my intellect, but also because we shared a similar condition. Taking my heart would have increased his intellectual power twice fold, and would leave me helpless to move against him."

Watson shook his head. "But where is your heart, if it was not that?"

"Present!" Irene reached under her collar and produced another oddly shaped jewel, attached to the end of a necklace chain. This jewel was radiant deep blue in color. It reminded Watson of the color the Arabian Sea at night. She took off the necklace and handed it to Watson. "I only had it for safe keeping," she said, grinning. "Although you must admit it is rather a beautiful stone."

"You took it and disappeared to America with a lawyer while I was away on a case," Holmes seethed. "How is that safe keeping?"

"Well, it was away from any harm in America," Irene shrugged. "I wrote you a note. And Moriarty would have never guessed that you would be so far away from it. I would have returned it eventually. Besides, why are you belly-aching about it _now_? You have it back."

"Why are you giving it to me?" Watson asked, a bit bewildered.

"Sherlock asked me to," Irene said bluntly, a knowing smile on her face. "Besides," she shrugged, "It's rather burdensome to carry."

Watson looked to Holmes, who suddenly found the ground very interesting. The stone's weight felt heavy in Watson's hands. The doctor stared at it, mesmerized by the jewel's gleam. Like Moriarty's, the stone throbbed in a calming melody that moved Watson. It was much more beautiful than the Blue Carbuncle. But Watson could not imagine keeping Holmes' heart on the end of a necklace. He wanted to hear it beating inside of Holmes' chest. Watson shook his head, and held the stone out for Holmes to take. "No," Watson said. "I cannot."

Looking crestfallen, Holmes nodded and took the stone in hand. "I understand. It was too much to ask."

"I cannot take it because it is not mine to keep, Holmes," Watson replied as he folded his hand over Holmes' outstretched one and the stone. "I cannot be like Moriarty. I will not be the one who monopolizes your heart. I care for you too much."

Holmes stared at his hand enclosed in Watson's, and then into Watson's eyes. Slowly nodding, he said, "Then Sherlock Holmes will possess a heart once more."

Watson smiled, "I'm glad."

"And we will continue to go on adventures," Holmes added, smiling in return. He grabbed Watson's other hand and pulled the doctor closer.

"Naturally. So long as I get to follow your every step, and write down everything that happens."

"Naturally," Holmes replied. "I’d be lost without my Watson."

Meanwhile, Irene let out a put upon sigh. "While this is charming and all you two, it's still quite a walk to Rosenlaui and it's going to get dark soon. I'd rather not go rock climbing at night."

 

The group of three did head to the hamlet of Rosenlaui that evening, where another ceremony was performed in front of two witnesses. Holmes' contract was ended and his heart once more beat inside of his body. Once done, they headed back towards France, where Irene said her goodbyes in Paris, and the two men boarded a train to take them to Calais. From there it they would catch a Ferry to take them home to England.

After they boarded the train, and became quite comfortable in their private car, Watson was finally able to ask the question he had been most afraid to voice. "Do you feel different now that your heart has returned?" he said, meekly. Holmes had not changed much physically, although there was more color to his skin. His eyes were now a beautiful slate color, still overwhelmingly stunning, but less haunting. Watson found them more mesmerizing than before.

Holmes took a moment to think, looking up at the ceiling of the car as he did so. "Yes, I believe it does. My chest feels much heavier now, although I can block the feeling when I think to." He looked to Watson and leaned forward in his seat. "And I find my mind has slowed somewhat. It has been so long since I thought like an average man! How boring it is! Honestly, Watson I do not know how you can stand it all."

Watson smiled, "I am sure you will find your equilibrium, Holmes. I will help you."

Holmes eyes widened for a moment, and he then quickly said, "Be careful of that stain on the seat just next to you, Watson. It seems the overweight German businessman who sat in here with his alienated wife before us did not enjoy the taste of English tea and decided that it would serve better to stain peoples clothes. I rather like that suit on you, and do not want to see it ruined."

Raising an eyebrow and chuckling, Watson leaned forward in the car and said, "I rather think you will never be average, Holmes." He then pulled the detective in for a kiss. "And I rather prefer it that way."

 

_FIN_


End file.
